Grace Cleary is an assistant art director at KCPR and an on-air disc jockey. The opinions expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect those of Mustang Media Group.
Hand-drawn concert fliers depicting topless hippies, a chainsaw slayer and a deadpan surfer impaled by his board — accompanied with rambling words scrawled below the cryptic images — was what I knew of Black Flag.
The band’s infamous monochromatic artwork done by Raymond Pettibon is the reason why I ended up standing outside The Siren in Morro Bay on the brisk night of January 23.
In the car ride down, my colleague explained that her friend who saw the band last year ended up with a black eye. I figured she was particularly wild and believed it until the bouncer warned us to “tread lightly in there.”
Before anyone recentered their attention to the stage, four nondescript figures walked up from the crowd and started playing. Four members from different generations then locked into a jam session that lasted the hour-long set, never breaking to blather to the audience or bothering to introduce themselves. I pondered if this was the band. Black Flag wasn’t on stage to be superior, but to be on the same level as the audience.
Each body was placed in a trance, the band and audience alike. The threat of accelerating the tempo loomed over our heads. Then they would backbend into a song no one was expecting. A death spiral of people punching, hugging and slam dancing formed a portal directly in front of the band.
We experienced continuous rounds of Black Flag’s favorite mantra: chanting “Fucked! Up!” until they faded out.
A man lost balance at the top of a two-stair step and crashed to the floor — face down, pants down. He stumbled up, turned to me and laughed “I’m Fucked! Up!”
Southern Californian themes weaved and waved throughout the music with lyrics like “I was a hippie! I was a Surfer! I was a skater!”
The lead singer and pro skater, Mike Vallely, would become fixated on a single lyric, repeating it until eventually, it morphed into a whole other concept. “Black Coffee” transitioned into their hit, “Six Pack”… my drinks of choice.
I caught Vallely sitting at the bar with some buddies in between sets. He had been touring with the band since December. We spoke honestly about the desert. His gritty, emotional performance was not an act. I sipped my “Pale from the Crypt” draft beer and listened intently.
The audience agreed and reacted to the meaning of each song. Greg Ginn, the band’s only founding member and whose brother created the aforementioned band fliers, made us feel as if there was something grave about the music. It flowed directly from each player’s soul, untouched by ego.
The pace would pick up at the drop of a coin. My heart began to beat along to the drums. I started to get lost in their maze of never-ending, electrostatic guitar jams. I felt connected to the band’s emotions. I Blacked Out.
After the show, I found myself lingering on the stage and shooting some images on my retro digi cam. Ginn gravitated toward my investigative presence. He chuckled and asked, “Do you want a photo?”
I responded “I really like this album cover, the artwork,” pointing to a CD on top of an amp. Ginn slowly and sweetly agreed, seemingly proud but got swept away quickly.
A guy approached him and revealed every single Black Flag EP in hopes for autographs. Ginn looked back at me and laughed, “fans…” is what I imagined we were both thinking.
