Kind of Fonda Henry: A Punk Epiphany (and the Law of the West) - Page 4

As Jello stalks the floor, his stature rises with each invisible step. Meanwhile, the rainbow-haired Massacre Boys from Salt Lake City bring their set to a merciful close. We are nursing another beer, watching the crowd mill about like ultra-neanderthals, well-heeled, snarling urbanites of the 1980s.

At the table nearby, a short-haired woman keeps accenting the tightness of her leather dress. A Mutt n' Jeff duo are trading barbs near our seats. The large guy with the 'Fuck-Off-Nazi-Punks' armband threatens to pulverize this pintsize, Italian guy, who keeps insulting everything in sight. Off to one side, a perspiring white dude can't keep his hand off his girlfriend's striped behind. She doesn't seem to mind. What everyone seems to mind is the interminable interlude awaiting the Dead Kennedys arrival. The loudspeakers drone obnoxious German beer hall music. By the stage, we can see Jello's family arrive and watch as mother, father and sister are peering into the wings. Like guardians of the Star, they would sense his imminent appearance. Slam dancers crowd the stage, competing for the fetid oxygen and freedom of movement. The crowd seethes, the beer hall music bludgeons our ears and we are standing on our chairs as the air turns into pure heat. Another chorus of ambient noise plays counterpoint to the audience crescendos of DK fan-fever. Who feels like drinking?

CAZART! With a sweep from the wings, the DK's take the stage. A shirtless Jello sneers at the crowd in measured disgust. He flings a beer can out on the sea of bodies. Two or three cans return. No Lawrence Welk here tonight. No anna-one-anna-two. Tonight belongs to the noble savage. Jello wails and the band strikes up the tunes – Holiday in Cambodia, Terminal Preppy, Trust Your Mechanic, Dog Bite and Secret Police fly by at the speed of sound. The DKs play bionically fast. Jello bounces from audience to microphone, to Klaus Fluoride, his bass player, to whatever inches of space surround his writhing soul. We are witnessing the movements of a man in an oversized bag of some sort, realizing for the first time that he is both trapped and set free in this plastic dimension of human space. This is no Mick Jagger strut we are watching. Jello moves like a comet on a short elastic band. He wails:

Got a black uniform and a silver badge.

Playing cops for real,

Playing cops for pay.

Let's Ride, Lowride.