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Authors: Jack Boulware

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BOOK: Gimme Something Better
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Of course it turned out that there were a few ideological Nazis in the scene who were very hurt by the song. One of them even started wearing a swastika armband to shows and a full SS uniform. Then I found out that he’d committed suicide when his wife left him and some of his friends blamed me. And then it got even more violent for me than ever before.
Ray, Klaus and D.H. didn’t seem affected by this and didn’t really seem to care. But there was times in 1982 when that song came out where I never knew what was going to happen next. I got stabbed at an On Broadway show. Somebody set off dynamite in front of my house and I didn’t know who did it for the longest time. It was not good times. I was constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“SHOOTING THE SHIT”
TIM YOHANNAN:
Of all the American bands you’re the most renowned. Are you rolling in dough—are you rich rock stars?
JELLO BIAFRA:
One of the ways people like the Clash or Devo have gotten supposedly wealthy is that neither of those two bands ever bothered with forming their own labels, or tried to help expedite artwork by anybody else. A lot of our money went into forming Alternative Tentacles records. The purpose of our compilation LP,
Let Them Eat Jellybeans
, was to alert people overseas and wherever to American talent and diversity. With Alternative Tentacles we got out a number of records by other people which might not have appeared—the
Maximum RocknRoll
LP set, 7 Seconds, etc. But not without problems.
TIM:
Well, you’ve still skirted the question of what have you guys done with the large amount of money you made?
BIAFRA:
It depends on what you call a lot of money. For example, none of us own houses. We all pay rent and live with roommates. It’s not as though we suddenly have gone off to suburbia and bought tract homes. Basically we have been able to live for the past three years on income from the band. So on a day-to-day subsistence and existence level we’ve risen to that level, which is a lot further than many other people in the punk scene have been able to do, and that breeds a certain amount of jealousy. I take great pride in the fact that we’ve been able to support ourselves through the band without working 8 hours a day at degrading shit jobs that tax our energy and creativity. We sort of rose and fell in the financial department—at this point the band is pretty much broke.
TIM:
No. The reason I bring up the question is—you have ‘politically-oriented’ punk bands who are accused of preachiness. From my perspective, it’s important for bands who are talking or singing politically to practice what they preach, in a sense. Bands who make no bones about being out for bucks I have no expectations of.
JEFF BALE:
They have no responsibility.
TIM:
Bands who are going out to the public and trying to inform and agitate about political matters do have a responsibility to maintain credibility with the public.
BIAFRA:
I didn’t come from a wealthy background and I’ve never mixed well with wealthy people; have barely met any in my whole life. My mother’s a librarian and my father doesn’t work at all. I’m very proud of him—he works a lot, but he doesn’t work any shit jobs, he writes, primarily. . . . People who expect too much of me, who want to lift me to the level of great leader or guru and thus isolate me as a zoo animal—thereby putting me below the level of a human being—I find that ugly. If I got out to other shows, which I do, I don’t like getting vibes from some people: “Oh, what’s he doing here? There’s Biafra the asshole rock star,” without ever talking to me. Just viewing me as something to be resented.
JEFF:
I think that’s inevitable.
BIAFRA:
It might be inevitable, but it hurts. I have far more respect for people who walk up to me and say “I think you’re full of shit, for this reason . . . ,” than sneaking around and stirring up shit behind my back, and refusing to admit they did it.
TIM:
But most of the people that Biafra comes in contact with are quite young, and don’t have the accumulated life experience that gives self-identity and self-confidence.
BIAFRA:
I don’t think that age necessarily determines that. Some young people are very self-assured.
TIM:
Some, but that’s a rarity.

Maximum RocknRoll
11, January 1984
Dale Flattum:
I remember reading
MRR
interviews with Jello Biafra. We started getting Dead Kennedys records. Someone brought ’em back from Christmas break. The first two records, they were angry but fun. Like everything’s fucked, but we’re laughing at it all. They pointed out that you should question stuff, but it’s still fun to be alive.
James Washburn:
When I was in seventh grade in Pinole, I found a cassette tape on the playground. One side was the Dead Kennedys’
In God We Trust, Inc.
and the other side had the Sex Pistols. I had no idea what punk rock was. “The Sex Pistols, what a cool name! The Dead Kennedys? What the hell is on this tape?”
I played it, and it completely stopped me in my tracks. As anybody who likes punk rock knows, it gets you inside. It does something to you. You can’t explain it, it’s just there. It either works for you or it doesn’t.
The first two albums I’ve ever owned in my life, was one by Ernie and Bert, and the Dead Kennedys album with the Statue of Liberty on the cover.
Jeff Ott:
I got to see the Dead Kennedys a bunch of times. They’re probably the first point at which I went, “Oh, you can have a band and play songs and talk more than you play songs.” I was like, “That’s very interesting. I should try that sometime.”
Gavin MacArthur:
I went to the Keystone Berkeley and saw the Dead Kennedys. I was 13 years old. I remember being overwhelmed by the density of the crowd. I hadn’t even been to any big concerts yet. The closest thing I had been to was my parents dragging me to
The Nutcracker
.
I was really small as a kid and there were a bunch of people doing their little slam thing, moshing in the pit. It looked really outrageous, and me being kind of an adrenaline junkie, I went up onstage and started following people stage diving off of it. They just loved it when kids dove off, really small ones. They’d scoot ’em around the top of the crowd and throw ’em all over the place, and, man, I just had a blast.
Sergie Loobkoff:
I don’t think any band ever came close to being as intense and interesting. I was a dumbshit kid, I didn’t think about anything political. I wouldn’t think about what’s going on about Cambodia or whatever. Dead Kennedys was actually opening people’s eyes. I can’t think of that many bands that really did. I don’t believe Rage Against the Machine. I think they’re posturing. Most bands that play punk rock and talk punk rock politics, are they doing it ’cause it sells records, or ’cause it sounds cool?
Lars Frederiksen:
When I listened to a Dead Kennedys record the first time and heard “nigger,” I was like, whoa. You didn’t say that in my neighborhood. And here it was on a record. These guys didn’t give a fuck. “Bragging that you know how the niggers feel cold and the slums got so much soul.” I was an 11-year-old trying to figure out what they were saying, but not really getting it, just hearing the words. The word “fuck” in a record. You were like, “How did he do that? How’d he say ‘fuck’? KISS doesn’t say ‘fuck.’ ”
The Dead Kennedys had the ability, that if you weren’t crazy, they made you crazy in 15 minutes. You came in all serene, “I just smoked a joint, I’m cool.” Next thing you know,
danana nanana nanana
and you were like, “Ahhhh, I’m gonna kill somebody!” That’s what they made you feel like. “Give me something, ahhh! It’s like my schoolteacher’s on acid and he’s yelling at me!” It’s rad, you’re into it. You’re like, “I’m here. Fuck recess. I’ll pee right here, I don’t need a hall pass!”
I admire Jello. I don’t wanna call him a teacher because that’s probably not what he would wanna be referred to as. But his music did that. Like, what the fuck is this? Who the fuck’s Pol Pot? I’m like ten and I can’t listen to a Discharge record unless all the lights are on and my mom’s home, ’cause it’s scarin’ the shit outta me. A nuclear war? What the fuck? Crucifix is saying 1984, the world’s gonna end, and I’m just like, “Ahhh, we got two years to live!” I’m 13, I’m never gonna get my wiener sucked. The things you think about, you know. You got Jello screaming in one ear, Sothira’s screaming in the next, and you’re just like, “Oh fuck. I’m doomed!”
Frank Portman:
In the ’70s, the Dead Kennedys were tailor-made to appeal to me. Guys who liked Dr. Who and played D&D and listened to Dr. Demento, and liked punk rock—this was like the most awesome thing in the world. The real version of Weird Al Yankovic. This was just fantastic.
I took the bus to the city, and took the streetcar to Tower Records to get the “California Über Alles” single that I’d heard on Dr. Demento. It was two dollars, which was like, all my money. He was speaking to me at that particular time. And I was impressed with his belt buckle. It’s famous, it was a star, like a Wyatt Earp kind of belt buckle. He had this cartoon character voice, which I admired.
And then you realize, whoa, he wasn’t kidding. He really thinks that Jerry Brown is a fascist dictator, and he really thinks that everybody is Zen fascists, and that there’s a secret government underneath these mountains in Colorado that’s run by aliens. Wow, he’s just a nut. And he’s into hemp? That was a real blow to my worldview. It’s all down to politics. Which kind of does outlaw humor, other than in particularly directed causes. There’s a point where it’s, oh, that’s not funny. So it’s a weird position for a satirist to take. It alienated at least a little proportion of his fans.
Dallas Denery:
Of course, Frank is not an impartial critic of Jello Biafra. Because if you look at photos of them, they’re identical. I swear to god, in the late ’80s he looked just like Jello.
East Bay Ray:
The reason we were around so much, and maybe the biggest band that came out of that scene, is ’cause we rocked out. And we wrote good songs.
Klaus Flouride:
In the beginning we were also much more insistent on melody. Especially at the beginning. And we sort of let it slip near the end. By
Bedtime for Democracy
, eh, it wasn’t hitting quite as hard.
Jello Biafra:
It was very hard to get them to jam. But a lot of the jams we did do resulted into songs like “Moon Over Marin” or “This Can Be Anywhere,” “Soup Is Good Food” and some of the others. I always longed for more than that, but it was hard.
Larry Crane:
Vomit Launch opened for Camper Van Beethoven and the Dead Kennedys in Chico. That was ’85. The guys in the DKs were obviously good musicians and fairly open-minded to all kind of shit. But to me, this was a band way past their prime. We thought they were ancient. I was 21 or 22 at that point and these guys were pushing 30 almost. I’m thinking, “Punk bands aren’t supposed to be around for more than five years—they’re practically dead!” They sounded pretty good, though. I really liked Ray’s guitar playing. Jello was a great front man.
Joe Rees:
When Jello’s mother finally came to San Francisco, she really had no idea what he did. So Jello called me up one day at the studio and said, “I want to bring my mother over. Could we show her some of the videotapes?” That was a big deal to me. So I got everything together. I realized, oh my god, what am I gonna do? I must have a good eight, nine hours of Dead Kennedys here. As it turned out, Jello wanted her to watch eight or nine hours of Dead Kennedys! He made his mom sit in this room, and I played one tape after another. That poor woman. I was getting her a glass of water every once in awhile. We got through at least four hours of it. He did that to his own mother!
 
 
Hugh Swarts:
Dead Kennedys was one of the only punk bands from here that I’d heard. The whole Frankenchrist thing, the controversy over the Giger artwork, and them getting busted. That was a high-profile thing. It kind of extended beyond.
“SINGER’S TRIAL ON NUDITY IN ALBUM BEGINS TODAY”
—New York Times,
August 16, 1987
Jello Biafra:
April 15, 1986. I was in this flat I used to rent. I heard this tromping up the stairs. “We’re police officers. You are under suspicion of distributing harmful matter.”
Can you imagine any matter more harmful than finding a cop in your bedroom? And then going on down the stairs in the main part of the place and finding out it’s not just one cop, not just two, not just three. Nine cops were busy tearing my whole flat to pieces. I felt like it was a DEA drug raid or something.
There were two cops going through my address and phone book, page by page. It wasn’t just San Francisco cops. Three of the cops were from Los Angeles.
I was asking them, what is this harmful matter? There ain’t no drugs. There ain’t no guns. What it takes nine cops to tear my whole house apart to find is a record album:
Frankenchrist
.
And inside that record album was a painting by Swiss surrealist master H. R. Giger. The guy who won the Oscar for designing the set to
Alien
, designed the monsters. He’s done album covers for Emerson Lake & Palmer, Deborah Harry, Magma, Celtic Frost. He’s a recognized master. But they really wanted his ass.
One of the L.A. guys was going, “Where’s the guy who did this painting? Where is he?”
He’s in Switzerland.
[Then-prosecutor] Michael Guarino:
I remember looking at the piece of art, and thinking, just on the basis of the insert, we got a great case.
Jello Biafra:
I heard drawers opening and shutting upstairs. I plopped down in a chair with nothing but a bathrobe on. Two L.A. cops were circling around me like sharks.
By that time, they’d also raided the Alternative Tentacles and Mordam Records warehouse office space. Couple of the cops were holding up DOA T-shirts, showing themselves off. One of them found the 4 x 6 chrome slide we’d gotten of the Giger painting from his agent in Switzerland.
BOOK: Gimme Something Better
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