Jason Traeger
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Anyone who knows me knows I've never been one to revel in the past. I'm the last one to cast a misty-eyed glance back at the "good old days". In my experience the people who take this angle are usually the ones who weren't there. Whatever mistakes, false starts and missed opportunities I've had the pleasure of having, I was wherever I was for better or worse.

This blog is not meant to romanticize any choices I made or any particular era. It's simply a place where I share stories and take stock of where I've been as a way to figure out where I might want to go next. I'll celebrate some people along the way, some of them you'll know or know of, others will be new to you. I'm glad to have known every one of them.

The posts are in no thematic or chronological order. The date at the end of the post's title refers to how the content of the post relates to me personally. I make no claim about the accuracy of my recollections I only promise that I'll be as honest and accurate as I can be. If you were there and you remember things differently than I do, or you find evidence that contradicts my memory (I wouldn't be surprised or upset) feel free to let me know.

Rather than editing the posts for historical accuracy, I'll put ( * ) next to any parts that have been challenged or updated for that reason.


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May 1, 2012

PUNK IS AN ATTITUDE  THE WRECKS  BESSIE OAKLEY  RENO 1984

I don’t have a clue what goes on behind the scenes of incarnate reality aside from what I’ve gleaned from the countless glimpses behind the veil  I’ve secured through close encounters of the trippy kind with minor to massive doses of psychedelic substances over the years. These psycho-spiritual excursions may have provided me with some very useful modeling of the post death/pre-birth state but they sure didn’t leave anything resembling a neat little cosmic answer tied up with string on my doorstep!

I’m compelled then by observation and experience to take a rather agnostic view of the realms beyond. It seems like the only sensible position to take, after all, if these bardos were well understood they wouldn’t be the realms beyond. Instead they’d be a Subway Sandwich location or something. My position on these matters means I can’t honestly say I believe in reincarnation, but I’m also able to say I don’t not believe in it either. 

That said, there are certain people I’ve known who, without my even immediately recognizing it, are subtly related in my mind with another semi-specific place and time. My old friend Bessie Oakley is one of those people. As long as I’ve known her I’ve always associated her presence with that of a frontier woman of The Old West.

If you knew her you’d agree it wouldn’t take a great leap of imagination to see why I made that connection. It’s not rooted in bunch of metaphysical b.s. that’s for sure. Heck, all you have to do is say her name out loud…(   )…. If that isn’t the name of a heroine from the out of cowboy days dag blammit, I’ll eat mah hat!

It also doesn’t hurt that Bessie’s from Reno, NV. (or was it Sparks that she grew up in?) Not to mention her look. She is very beautiful but not in a overly delicate or super girly way. Even though I knew her well as a young lady there was a flinty edge to her appearance and demeanor that gave her good-natured summery glow a formidable quality.

She wasn’t too tall, she wasn’t too small, she had a frame that would’ve served her well splitting a cord of wood or tearing up the dance floor in town at the saloon. If she wore make-up at all she never wore much of it. When she thought hard about something her clear blue eyes would get squinty and I could just picture her surveying a stranger riding up on his horse toward the porch of her homestead from across a sun bitten prairie.

Her personal style did nothing to place her squarely in the times we lived through together as friends either. All through the Punk/Hardcore days she wore her blonde hair down past her shoulders and often in braids. She wore denim, long skirts and sensible shoes and with only a minor tweak here and there she could’ve strolled onto the set of a Western movie and straight into the camera’s eye without anyone having to shout “cut!”

Her personality was right at home in her person too. She was and still is funny as hell with a sense of humor that reflected her love of John Waters and which could make even the guys blush. She is tender hearted and warm but she didn’t take any sh-t from creeps. I always knew her to be patient and very open minded but she didn’t put up with nonsense or suffer fools gladly.

She also happens to be the very definition of a maverick pioneer, if not in terms of settling the land and breaking ponies, then at least culturally speaking. She and her all-girl Hardcore band The Wrecks were matter-of-fact Riot Grrrl before the first people to call themselves “Riot Grrrls” were out of grade school! I might be forgetting one but I can’t think of another all-girl, or even girl-centric band, in that early American Hardcore era. 

The Wrecks were a not-at-all-distant memory by the time I met Bessie in 1984 and soon afterwards, another Wreck, Jone Stebbins, who immediately became one of my dear friends as well. Bessie and Jone weren’t only known for being Wrecks either. They were equally well regarded and probably just as well known for their work as the co-editors of one of the most engaging and well loved fanzines of the time, a brilliant,  funny, and charming off-the-cuff serial work of art known as Paranoia ”the magazine for blind and illiterate punks”.

As fate would have it, a few years later in San Francisco I came to be friends with the band’s drummer Lynn Perko. She and I even played music together a few times when her band Sister Double Happiness was on a hiatus. I sucked, she was great, our jams didn’t leave the practice place. I was an acquaintance of The Wrecks’ singer Helen in S.F. as well. At the time I knew her she was working at the old Hard Rock Cafe location over on Van Ness and we’d all hang out together with the likes of Gary Floyd, Debbie Gordon, Phillip Gilbeau, Roddy Bottum and that whole Texas/S.F. Dicks/ Faith No More /later to become Imperial Teen scene. 

Even though most Punks, myself included, only got to experience The Wrecks’ music from their legendary cassette releases, I also had the good fortune of feeling the impact of their energy in my life as personal friends. It has to be said though that you didn’t have to know them personally or even know their songs to be touched by their influence. The fact is, if you were involved in the American Punk scene in that era you likely were affected by them whether you knew it or not.

I say this because they were hugely important individuals in the compact but very vital and widely influential Reno punk scene, a scene known by its nickname Skeeno. That city’s motto the “Biggest Little City in the World”  could’ve very accurately been applied to its Punk scene alter ego as well in terms of the disproportionate size of its footprint on the national scene. All the touring bands played Reno back then. For instance if you lived there you probably saw Minor Threat, I lived in the much bigger city of Seattle and  never had the chance to see them live.

Of course Reno didn’t just import the great bands they exported some too. By far the most well known of these exports is the mighty 7SECONDS. If you follow my blog you know I was great friends with 7 SECONDS (who I met through Bessie) and that as a teenager I had the life-altering experience of seeing the country as a roadie for the band. I also shared a place with Kevin, his girlfriend Angie, and some other folks in Reno for a while around the time of that tour.

When I said earlier that you didn’t have to know The Wrecks or have even heard them to be touched by their broader influence, I’m thinking primarily about how their presence was felt nationally through the gender inclusive, proto Punk Rock-feminist message woven into 7 SECONDS’ songs and aura. It may seem strange that in a politically radical scene like American Hardcore there were very few bands singing about gender equality but it’s true.

7 SECONDS weren’t just any band either. They were one of the most popular bands around and they toured a lot. Everywhere they went they made a point to address women’s and girl-centered issues head on from the stage. Kevin’s lyrics also spoke specifically about defending and promoting women’s roles and rights in Punk Scene itself.

Like I said, this was a very rare message to hear before 7 SECONDS but it was more common after they delivered it to the scene. So it was no small thing. I knew a lot of girls and guys, myself included, who deeply appreciated this strong pro-woman perspective being voiced in the very dude-centric, too often very macho wilderness of the scene at that time.

I’ve read many interviews, and I’ve heard Kevin talk on stage very clearly about how his gender inclusive perspective was influenced by the big role women played in the Reno scene. Bessie and Jone, The Wrecks, he and his brother Steve Youth’s sister Cari and other women helped shaped that scene into the special one it was. It should also be noted that the 7 SECONDS brothers were raised by a strong mother who was known to the scene, and thanked on every one of the band’s releases, as Ma Seconds.

That’s what I mean about the ripple effect Bessie, Jone, Lynn and Helen’s music has had and continues to have on the world. It’s also worth mentioning that I was urged several times to write this post by a woman who herself has long been a prolific and inspirational progenitor of The Wrecks’ motto “Punk is an Attitude”, none other than Bikini Kill/Jigsaw/3rd wave feminist icon, artist, and activist Tobi Vail. 

So all you Tumblring teenage Riot Grrrls out there who have had your lives changed by  Kathleen and Tobi’s shouts, wails, singing, playing, pounding and professing, you might want to Google ”Wrecks Reno Punk” sometime. You’ll be glad you did.

I’ll close on a personal note…

I can say this now over 25 years after the fact without a hint of embarrassment because it wasn’t a secret then, it’s no secret now, and it only shows what exceptionally good taste I have, and had in human beings even as a young Punk.

Bessie Oakley was my first true love. I hoped then that I wasn’t shooting too far out of my league as a 15 year old in my feelings for her, even if I was I couldn’t help it! My love for Bessie transcended the realm of being a mere crush on some older, unapproachable, scene queen that I could only admire from afar. Yes, she was and will always be, a total Punk Rock hero of mine but she was also one of my closest, most beloved friends and she was someone I (and half the guys in the scene, I’d imagine) simply adored. Like so many other people, I still adore her to this day! 

…and I love Jone, Kev, Lynn, Steve, Troy, and all those Reno people who meant so much to me and taught me so many good things about life. Thanks guys!

I’d like to dedicate this post to all of you and to Tobi Vail.

R.I.P. Phillip Gilbeau.

The Wrecks, Bessie Oakley and Jone Stebbins photos by Cari L. Marvelli. Birthday collage made for me from Bessie Oakley (featuring Tim Yohannon, Jone, Silvio from Italy, Barry from Christ on Parade, Martin Sprouse and many more) from my personal archives. Thanks to Cari L. Marvelli.


2:44pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zl8DhvKiBY6h
(Notes: 10)
  
Filed under: 7 seconds bessie oakley bikini kill blondies pizza christ on parade faith no more gary floyd hardcore imperial teen jone stebbins kathleen hanna kevin seconds lynn perko truell minor threat paranoia phillip gilbeau psychdelics punk reno roddy bottum sister double happiness skeeno steve youth the dicks the wrecks tim yohannon tobi vail riot grrrl angie whitworth troy mowatt 
April 11, 2012
DAY ON THE GREEN BACKSTAGE PASS  SAN FRANCISCO 1991
My first ten years of seeing live music almost exclusively meant going to small shows at old theaters, community halls, college rec. centers, dilapidated ballrooms, and occasionally to all ages clubs. These were the places where the underground bands I liked played and I liked the fact that the shows were cheap, stripped down, and that all the action was up-close and personal.
The vast majority of my peers at school were into mainstream rock, pop, and soul music and when they’d come to school after having seen a concert over the weekend wearing a new t-shirt, holding a glossy concert program, and telling tales of flash pots, props, and stage banter it always sounded to me like they’d been at an event more like a Mariners or Padres game than at what I thought of as a Rock-n-Roll show. I could see they had obviously had a great time but I didn’t see the appeal in it myself.
It wasn’t until the early nineties when I lived in San Francisco and worked at Alternative Tentacles that I started checking out big bands at big places with any regularity. This was due in part because working at A.T. we had tons of hook-ups with people at major labels, in bands, with promoters, and at radio stations so we could get in free (and backstage) to just about any show in town big or small. I also started going to these big shows around this time because this was the era when interesting bands, and bands we knew, began getting big and playing big places for the first time.
The backstage pass pictured above was for the 1991 Day on the Green Hard Rock/Metal fest that Bill Graham Presents put on every year in Oakland. As it would turn out Bill Graham died in a copter crash shortly after this fest and 91 was the final year of DOTG. I’ll say this…the fest went out on quite a note.
I’m not sure exactly who made up our party that day but I know for sure that Greg Werckman, myself, and David Yow from The Jesus Lizard (who had played in town the night before) were there and that we were witness that day to a spectacle unlike any I’d ever seen at a show before or since.
It should be noted that the “day” part of the festival’s title literally meant the concert took place in the clear light of day. This one fact really sticks out in my mind as a defining aspect of the experience because it deeply enhanced the stark, clear-eyed vision of the apocalypse that that would unfold before our eyes that afternoon.
I’m making a deliberate choice of words in describing the thing as a vision because our party spent most of the day either milling around backstage or ensconced high in the sparsly populated upper seats looking down at the stage and at the vast expanse of Oakland Coliseum’s field. No one in our party had any desire to participate in a more intimate manner in that days proceedings partly because we were tired from the night before but also because after surveying the scene on the field below our instinct for self-preservation had kicked into high gear.
What did we see from our godlike perch in the sky?
Well, the bands were the bands. Queensryche started the day off on a civilized and theatrical if not terribly well-received note. Soundgarden  and our friends Faith No More were progressive but also aggressive enough to please the fans and fan the flames of the crowd who were definitely there for the headliners: Metallica.
The last time I’d seen Metallica was at San Diego State University’s Back Door a room that held about 500 people. Six years later at The Day on the Green they drew about 15,000 fans. It was a slightly different vibe.
If you’ve followed my blog you’ve likely picked up on the fact that I was witness to a lot of violence in my years of Punk show-going, especially in Southern California. I thought I’d seen some crazy-big brawls in San Diego and at places in L.A. like Fender’s and The Olympic Auditorium and they were big and brutal fights and beatings, especially when they were happening in your immediate physical vicinity. However when a fight looks huge from a mile away like the ones we saw that day in Oakland, that’s when you know you’re dealing with issues of scale on a whole other level.
When I recall the scene now it really is like remembering a dream or a nightmare. As Metallica played in the broad daylight the thousands assembled on the field transformed into dozens of swirling moshpit toilets, working like satanic gears, grinding, consuming, and spitting out the hapless souls caught in their teeth. Every few minutes a gear or two or three would seem to do a slow, sickening, slide to one side as a small army of fighters unleashed their fury against one another or upon a victim or group of victims.
I remember clearly images of what appeared to be giants hurling great chunks of sod they’d torn up from the field at one another and into the spinning wheels. Shirtless Skinheads, Bikers, long-haired tribes of Heshers, men, and boys all doing battle for battle’s sake. Covered in dirt, blood and sweat as the deafening sounds from the stage stoked the fire and rage.
It went on like this for the whole set until the field was torn to shreds and the wounded were being treated and removed from the pitch like a scene from a Civil War battlefield. It was unbelievable.
Hoping to avoid getting caught up in the full piss-stream of humanity that would soon be exiting the place, we decided to leave during the first encore. As the final chords shook the building and we made our way out with the other assorted early-departing heavy metal couples, music fans, and those too inebriated to know what they were doing everyone we encountered had either a wild look or a look of caution, urgency, and fear in their eyes. The air was thick and buzzing with a primal current that could’ve just as easily been exhilarating or troubling depending on your state of mind while swimming in it. Our party definitely veered toward the latter interpretation of the pheremonal atmosphere.
I remember Yow very narrowly avoiding getting covered head to toe with a stream of vomit that poured out of a guy hanging over the ledge above us as we made our way out through a passageway. As we navigated our way through the quickly swelling throngs I felt a bristling, vigilant, animal awareness in my gut that was a product of knowing we were in a place where the thin veneer of culture had been rubbed perilously raw. The whole scene was like a 3d, surround-sound, scratch-n-sniff Hieronymous Bosch painting. Once we were safely in the car heading out onto the freeway and back across the Bay toward civilisation I’d be lying if I said we didn’t all let out a little laugh and sigh of relief. Whew!
Now that I think of it, it’s funny how “Day on the Green” sounds like some kinda picnic.
I’m here to tell ya man: Rock-n-Roll ain’t no picnic.
Day on the Green backstage pass from my personal archives.

DAY ON THE GREEN BACKSTAGE PASS  SAN FRANCISCO 1991

My first ten years of seeing live music almost exclusively meant going to small shows at old theaters, community halls, college rec. centers, dilapidated ballrooms, and occasionally to all ages clubs. These were the places where the underground bands I liked played and I liked the fact that the shows were cheap, stripped down, and that all the action was up-close and personal.

The vast majority of my peers at school were into mainstream rock, pop, and soul music and when they’d come to school after having seen a concert over the weekend wearing a new t-shirt, holding a glossy concert program, and telling tales of flash pots, props, and stage banter it always sounded to me like they’d been at an event more like a Mariners or Padres game than at what I thought of as a Rock-n-Roll show. I could see they had obviously had a great time but I didn’t see the appeal in it myself.

It wasn’t until the early nineties when I lived in San Francisco and worked at Alternative Tentacles that I started checking out big bands at big places with any regularity. This was due in part because working at A.T. we had tons of hook-ups with people at major labels, in bands, with promoters, and at radio stations so we could get in free (and backstage) to just about any show in town big or small. I also started going to these big shows around this time because this was the era when interesting bands, and bands we knew, began getting big and playing big places for the first time.

The backstage pass pictured above was for the 1991 Day on the Green Hard Rock/Metal fest that Bill Graham Presents put on every year in Oakland. As it would turn out Bill Graham died in a copter crash shortly after this fest and 91 was the final year of DOTG. I’ll say this…the fest went out on quite a note.

I’m not sure exactly who made up our party that day but I know for sure that Greg Werckman, myself, and David Yow from The Jesus Lizard (who had played in town the night before) were there and that we were witness that day to a spectacle unlike any I’d ever seen at a show before or since.

It should be noted that the “day” part of the festival’s title literally meant the concert took place in the clear light of day. This one fact really sticks out in my mind as a defining aspect of the experience because it deeply enhanced the stark, clear-eyed vision of the apocalypse that that would unfold before our eyes that afternoon.

I’m making a deliberate choice of words in describing the thing as a vision because our party spent most of the day either milling around backstage or ensconced high in the sparsly populated upper seats looking down at the stage and at the vast expanse of Oakland Coliseum’s field. No one in our party had any desire to participate in a more intimate manner in that days proceedings partly because we were tired from the night before but also because after surveying the scene on the field below our instinct for self-preservation had kicked into high gear.

What did we see from our godlike perch in the sky?

Well, the bands were the bands. Queensryche started the day off on a civilized and theatrical if not terribly well-received note. Soundgarden  and our friends Faith No More were progressive but also aggressive enough to please the fans and fan the flames of the crowd who were definitely there for the headliners: Metallica.

The last time I’d seen Metallica was at San Diego State University’s Back Door a room that held about 500 people. Six years later at The Day on the Green they drew about 15,000 fans. It was a slightly different vibe.

If you’ve followed my blog you’ve likely picked up on the fact that I was witness to a lot of violence in my years of Punk show-going, especially in Southern California. I thought I’d seen some crazy-big brawls in San Diego and at places in L.A. like Fender’s and The Olympic Auditorium and they were big and brutal fights and beatings, especially when they were happening in your immediate physical vicinity. However when a fight looks huge from a mile away like the ones we saw that day in Oakland, that’s when you know you’re dealing with issues of scale on a whole other level.

When I recall the scene now it really is like remembering a dream or a nightmare. As Metallica played in the broad daylight the thousands assembled on the field transformed into dozens of swirling moshpit toilets, working like satanic gears, grinding, consuming, and spitting out the hapless souls caught in their teeth. Every few minutes a gear or two or three would seem to do a slow, sickening, slide to one side as a small army of fighters unleashed their fury against one another or upon a victim or group of victims.

I remember clearly images of what appeared to be giants hurling great chunks of sod they’d torn up from the field at one another and into the spinning wheels. Shirtless Skinheads, Bikers, long-haired tribes of Heshers, men, and boys all doing battle for battle’s sake. Covered in dirt, blood and sweat as the deafening sounds from the stage stoked the fire and rage.

It went on like this for the whole set until the field was torn to shreds and the wounded were being treated and removed from the pitch like a scene from a Civil War battlefield. It was unbelievable.

Hoping to avoid getting caught up in the full piss-stream of humanity that would soon be exiting the place, we decided to leave during the first encore. As the final chords shook the building and we made our way out with the other assorted early-departing heavy metal couples, music fans, and those too inebriated to know what they were doing everyone we encountered had either a wild look or a look of caution, urgency, and fear in their eyes. The air was thick and buzzing with a primal current that could’ve just as easily been exhilarating or troubling depending on your state of mind while swimming in it. Our party definitely veered toward the latter interpretation of the pheremonal atmosphere.

I remember Yow very narrowly avoiding getting covered head to toe with a stream of vomit that poured out of a guy hanging over the ledge above us as we made our way out through a passageway. As we navigated our way through the quickly swelling throngs I felt a bristling, vigilant, animal awareness in my gut that was a product of knowing we were in a place where the thin veneer of culture had been rubbed perilously raw. The whole scene was like a 3d, surround-sound, scratch-n-sniff Hieronymous Bosch painting. Once we were safely in the car heading out onto the freeway and back across the Bay toward civilisation I’d be lying if I said we didn’t all let out a little laugh and sigh of relief. Whew!

Now that I think of it, it’s funny how “Day on the Green” sounds like some kinda picnic.

I’m here to tell ya man: Rock-n-Roll ain’t no picnic.

Day on the Green backstage pass from my personal archives.

1:17pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zl8DhvJUr6Kc
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: day on the green oakland david yow jesus lizard greg werckman metallica queensryche faith no more matt sorum bill graham presents oakland coliseum 
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