by Tom DeSavia
It was a photo of Exene: a black-and-white shot, her extra-wide open eyes peeking out from her bangs under a shock of jet-black hair, her arms in front, upright, crossed at the forearms to form the letter X, framing her face.
I think I saw the photo before I ever heard a note. And that photo said everything: it was supposed to shock, I suppose—it did—but mostly it was hypnotic. I remember staring at it, showing it to friends, eventually pinning it up on my wall. The photo was by Ed Colver. He, along with Frank Gargani, Jenny Lens, Gary Leonard, Melanie Nissen, Ann Summa, and a host of other emerging photographers, would become documentarians of the history of the Los Angeles punk-rock scene.
Each of these artists captured images so iconic, they almost instantly became as important as the music, not only defining the subculture but also differentiating it from sister scenes going on in New York and the UK. B&W was the preferred exposure for most—although some utilized the vibrant, somewhat shocking contrasting colors present in fashion and hair dye—often with scenes of the West Coast’s decaying glamour providing the backdrop. The marriage of music and photography was natural; for those too young to be in the center of the actual scene, these very images were what resonated with us as much as anything else did.
I shot the first lineup of Black Flag in front of Frederick’s of Hollywood on Hollywood Boulevard, and after two or three frames one of the members put his foot through the huge plate-glass window and it shattered, crashing down in thousands of pieces—but I got the shot—it ran in No magazine.
—Frank Gargani
These photos showed us the desperate faces, at any moment capturing rage, defiance, apathy . . . sometimes all in one moment. The snapshots of the live shows often conveyed the tension of an authentic underground and its unearthly inhabitants. Occasionally the gritty reality of the performers resembled early-twentieth-century crime scene photography, a havoc-laden Weegee-like alternate universe where the “victims”—covered in chaotic tattoos and sometimes spit, thrown beer, and occasionally blood—were the center of attraction, violently gripping microphones and guitars in midperformance. They introduced images of mosh pits and stage diving that would serve as instructional blueprints for those who saw them. It was all part of the most mesmerizing visual cautionary tale since rock ‘n’ roll’s first real evolution in the mid-1960s.
Exene standing on the toilet at the Masque—her pose, that grimy graffitied stall, those skinny jeans and orthopedic shoe-boots. So tough and cool.
—Ann Summa
Screamers on the Bus Bench perfectly encapsulates the cultural revolution. Young men with their spiky hair (so radical for its time), jeans with holes during a time most ironed on patches or threw them out, pointed boots, and other unique clothing versus a little old lady with her cat-eyeglasses, neck brace, and checkered dress says more about the visual and societal changes than any other photo from LA or any other city in 1977.
—Jenny Lens
1979, Hong Kong Café, The Germs—best live photos I ever shot. I got punched in the face by a rabid Germs fan and I struck back by tackling him; we ended up onstage in Don Bolles’s drum kit and the show went on.
—Frank Gargani
There were the anticelebrity icons who were born: the Darbys and Exenes and Rollinses. But just as captivating were the crowds, the kids from the street, the scenesters expressing fashion, the reactions of proletariats interacting with the undesirables.
I took a picture of Carlos Guitarlos and Mayor (Tom) Bradley. I was covering a celebrity (singer Vikki Carr) getting her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and I invited Carlos to come along. He hung out in the background while I shot, and as the ceremony was ending, I asked Carlos if he wanted his picture with Mayor Tom Bradley, who was officiating the proceedings. I went to Mayor Bradley and I said, “Can I take a picture of you and my friend Carlos Guitarlos?” Being a politician, he of course said yes, and then did the most spectacular double-take when he saw Carlos. I knew I had captured something: the first black mayor meeting a punk rocker. This was such a native view, and that photo screamed, “This is Los Angeles, this is happening, this is taking place.”
—Gary Leonard
Fashion and music seemingly evolved together, and the photos brought to life a punk-rock look that would eventually become a defining, widely adopted style, born from vintage thrift-store finds. A mix of garage-sale chic with nods to the Brandos and Bettie Pages that came before adorned the musicians and the fans alike. Just mentioning the word “punk” to any God-fearing citizen would conjure up a look, a style, a knot in the stomach. Punk was associated with one noise—and it was way worse than just loud, fast, and out of control. Mission accomplished.
Punk photography and my style of shooting were a match made in heaven. I have always shot very quickly, no fear of getting close, and I was very body language and personality oriented, with a bit of fashion thrown in. Fast, just like the music.
—Melanie Nissen
The visuals, the creativity, and the music drew me. The fashion was amazing, the music loud and crazy and pretty much like nothing I’d ever heard before. It felt like a revolution.
—Ann Summa
I used to turn the camera at an angle—it really was my signature during that time—I related most to Diane Arbus and Garry Winogrand. This was about documenting. As for his signature style for the first few years, Gary observed, “I got into this angular portrait thing. I grew out of it and no longer do it—it really is the one little affectation that seems to work at that time—not straight or vertical, but filling the frame to a different view.
—Gary Leonard
I merely wanted to capture the energy, fun and excitement, and, most of all, creativity of what I was feeling and seeing. I used my camera to support the musicians and the scene.
—Jenny Lens
At the shows I shot as fast as I could, with an on-camera flash powered with a battery pack, on a Nikon F. That way I could keep up with the music. I liked the live photos to be very high-key, hard-edge b&w.
—Frank Gargani
Everything was frenetic, so one had to be organized and at the same time keep one eye on your subject and the other to protect yourself and gear from the craziness around you. I had two cameras with different lenses on each so I wouldn’t miss a shot.
—Ann Summa
I bought darkroom gear using a credit card. I taught myself how to roll film, develop negatives, print proof sheets, and make prints (all of which I hated! Hated! Hated!). I taught myself to reach out to magazines and record companies to get my photos into the world. I also moved from the Valley to Hollywood to be near all the action.
—Jenny Lens
LA has historically been dubbed a cultural wasteland; the rest of the country, generally even the world, have looked down their collective noses at us at one time or another. Our culture was too new, our architecture and literature boorish, our artistic aesthetic subpar or even nonexistent. To the outside world we lived in a shallow paradise. We snacked on fresh citrus fruit and listened to The Eagles whilst sipping margaritas on chaise lounges by our pools in year-round perfect weather. This, undoubtedly, was either not the reality for most punks or served as the main source of rebellion for the ones who came from that existence.
I’ve always been on a mission to chronicle this city in a very intuitive way. I wanted to put out a native point of view. I get the romance of Los Angeles—that romantic ideal that captured those who were from out of town. It was always about the place, about recognizing the history of the city. It was a moment in LA history that hadn’t occurred before—and it wasn’t confined like before to those early days of the strip and along Sunset Boulevard; it really was everywhere. What drew me to the scene was all the different places that they had to be—in small clubs in Hollywood, downtown, in Chinatown. . . . I mean that was amazing, music in Chinatown?
—Gary Leonard
These were the days before the outskirts of Los Angeles were filled with high-priced lofts and the trendiest restaurants and clubs. Downtown LA was a scary place of homelessness and crime, of abandoned buildings and gutted shops. Just west was MacArthur Park, which, riddled with its infamous large population of heroin addicts, prostitutes, and (probably) dirty cops, was even worse. As such, these also became not only affordable neighborhoods for burgeoning artists to settle but also a haven for makeshift venues to pop up, many with the lifespan of a firefly. The raw loft spaces and the rest of the nearly abandoned real estate proved perfect locales for artistic types to gather and settle. Clubs such as Al’s Bar, Madame Wong’s, and the Elks Lodge coexisted alongside plenty of tried-and-true dirty dive bars, surrounded by bona fide skid rows to rival that of any doomed metropolis.
The moment I entered the Elks Lodge it felt like I walked into the first chapter of On the Road. Visually it was stunning. One of the first scenes I saw was a guy showing off his newly refinished bass and the girl who appeared to be with him. I got a photo of them, and they turned out to be John Doe and Exene. Those two nights changed my life and gave me a direction, a focus for my photography. This was more than a revolution for me; I’d call it an antirevolution.
—Frank Gargani
It was easy to recognize that there was a pure counterculture going on. In LA there was the mainstream and this counterculture. That was it.
—Gary Leonard
The punk demi-world brought together downtown art-damaged artists, South Bay head-banging skinheads, East LA muralists, Valley fans, and Hollywood runaways/squatters into one big mess. It wasn’t organized enough to be called a revolution, but thanks to Slash and Kickboy Face (né journalist Claude Bessy) and Dangerhouse Records, at least it was documented.
—Ann Summa
The importance of the birth of Slash magazine in May 1977—not only to the LA movement but also to punk rock in general—is immeasurable and cannot be overstated. The large-format fanzine/tabloid, the brainchild of Steve Samiof and photographer Melanie Nissen as well as a handful of artists, musicians, and scenesters, not only brought the exploits of the LA scene to the world in its own underground way but also helped set forth a style both in imaging and text that would go on to instantly define punk rock for eternity. “Steve Samiof showed me an article in the Los Angeles Times about a new music scene that was underway in London,” recalled Nissen. “Everything about it sounded intriguing and exciting—the music, visuals, fashion, and politics. We also heard that The Damned were coming to perform at the Starwood, and we went and checked it out. It was love at first listen.
We talked about doing a magazine, and The Damned were going to be the first group we worked with. I took the photo of Dave Vanian backstage that night for the first cover of Slash, Steve designed the logo, and we were ready to start. We then heard about The Screamers and that The Damned were going to be at their place, so we went over to their house and took more photos. The Screamers were the first LA punk band we met, so I did a photo session with them too. We also met The Germs there. That was a great hangout party house, a great place to shoot photos. And so the first issue of Slash started coming together.
—Melanie Nissen
I knew that punk was more than music. I merely wanted to capture the energy, fun and excitement, and, most of all, creativity of what I was feeling and seeing. I wanted the groups to be successful.
—Jenny Lens
Success? Success seemed the furthest possibility. Radio was not going to play this music, the mainstream press would mostly cover their disdain for it, save for a handful of established critics, from Gonzo journalist Lester Bangs at Creem to Kristine McKenna from the Los Angeles Times. More accessible than Slash was the LA Reader, the alternative weekly where emerging columnist Chris Morris began covering the scene and converting many an impressionable youth along the way. But still, many in the community seemingly shared Lens’s sentiment: at the root they wanted it to be successful. This could be the viable alternative the world needed. Rock ‘n’ roll reborn—but instead of inspiring a sexual revolution, this was a counter-counterculture artistic, political, and cultural movement, full of poets, burgeoning activists, and sophisticated derelicts. This could be a revolution.
There was the art, arguably led by Ray Pettibon’s show flyers and album art. Pettibon’s work defined the look of SST Records, the label owned and operated by his brother, Black Flag’s Greg Ginn. His artwork, usually created with simply black ink, was often antiestablishment and sometimes violent in its imagery. It defined an uprising, didn’t pretend to be gentle, and identified a segment of punk rock. Pettibon’s Black Flag logo remains one of the most recognizable rock ‘n’ roll emblems in existence.
Exene herself possessed a hand-lettering technique so unique that it became synonymous with the scene and, eventually, punk rock in general. Her work was emblazoned not only on the printed lyrics in X’s albums but also in the songbooks they created in the early years and then later adopted liberally by anyone anywhere wanting to present something resembling a credible punk aesthetic.
It could be argued that nothing challenged the complacency of 1970s visual, mind-numbing glitz than the rise of the punk-show flyer. All it took was some 8½-by-11 paper, glue, a razor blade, and a stack of old magazines, schoolbooks, some old porno mags as well as access to a copy machine. These seemingly hastily put-together show promos were showing up everywhere: record stores, skate shops, bars, and, most of all, telephone poles, club walls, boarded-up construction sites—basically anywhere that was ripe for plastering. Angular and uncomfortable layouts challenged our senses, typography design delivered the shock of a ransom note: dictators, celebrities new and old, 1950s science-fiction imagery, sacrilegious Christian iconography, Ronald Reagan’s forehead emblazoned with the number of the beast—these were all de rigueur.
The flyer culture held such significance that today these Xeroxed concoctions have received the museum and coffee-table respect given to fine and modern art. Deservedly so: a case can be made for these handbills paving the way for more conventional outsider art that took hold at the rise of the twenty-first century, including Shepard Fairey, Banksy, and the like.
The revolution wasn’t televised, but it was photographed. It was given immortality through the visual artists who were there, through an oftentimes unspoken shared vision with the musicians whose songs brought the scene together. Architects of not just a time but a movement. It turns out it was a cultural revolution all along, and although very few saw fame and riches from the birth of the Los Angeles punk-rock scene, they left behind an influential legacy more lasting than one assumes anyone could have imagined.
After the end of the Vietnam War, when the hippies decided to forget it and get high, I was extremely let down. After all, the sixties revolution was supposed to change the world, but where did that go? The punk movement was crazy and hectic and energetically full of life. I believe the statement punk made at that time was prophetic of where we are as a society today.
—Frank Gargani
Photo: Melanie Nissen