Mattioli Heath - Discos out ... murders in!: the true story of Frank the shank and L.A.s deadliest punk rock gang

Raymond Pettibon No Title (Long live crime) 1982 Pen and ink on paper 11 8 1/2 inches 27.9 21.6 cm Courtesy David Zwirner, New York

Discos Out Murders In!

The true story of Frank the Shank

and L.A.s deadliest punk rock gang

by Heath Mattioli & David Spacone

Discos Out Murders In!

2015 by Heath Mattioli & David Spacone, Feral House

All rights reserved

A Feral House book

ISBN 978-1627310239

Feral House

1240 W. Sims Way Suite 124

Port Townsend WA 98368

www.FeralHouse.com

design by D. Collins

illustration by Raymond Pettibon

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

Make no mistake about it,

the faster you live the quicker you die.

980s LOS ANGELES was the epicenter of hardcore punk rock, arguably the most violent youth movement in American history. Most know about the musics impact, but virtually nothing is known about L.A.s homicidal punk rock gangs, and the bodies they left in their wake.

Forest Lawn Long Beach was packed with beloved family and friends from all over Los Angeles. The deceased was a dear friend and just one of those guys. Sadly, his passing came too soon, like all those who burn too bright for others, but in the end have nothing left for themselves. After the sermon, after the memories, a number of us met back at a family members house for a traditional wake, but this gathering was a bit different. Untraditional would describe it perfectly. Not since the 1980s had we seen this many infamous hoodlums of punk rock rallied together in one place. Most were dead, locked up, or had assimilated into normal society and disappeared long ago. After spending some time looking at sun-bleached photo albums and listening to good-humored stories, an old acquaintance named Frank made his presence known by striking up a conversation, asking if we wanted to catch a smoke out front. Both of us had known Frank from afar, and had heard more than a few accounts of his street legend. Clearly feeling nostalgic, and maybe a bit vulnerable due to the circumstance, Frank told us a hair-raising story of a homicidal night in Hollywood during the 1980s involving the deceased. Stories like this used to haunt us kids who lived on the sidelines. The whispers at shows and rumors throughout the city were true. If you were anywhere near L.A.s hardcore punk rock scene back in the day, you knew you had to watch your back.

That late afternoon, we gave Frank a ride home and he opened up even more. Franks stories were electrifying and shockingly explicit. He spoke of bloody murder in cold, detailed accounts. Looking into his eyes, hearing his voice, you knew he lived every moment and hadnt gone back to that place in a long time. Right then, we knew this needed to be put to paper. This was the meat missing from all the published stories about punk in Southern Californiathe awful history that made hardcore in Los Angeles without a doubt hardcore.

Entrusting us with the task of turning his vignettes into a publishable narrative was going to be a challenge. Frank worked the graveyard shift, so most of our interviews had to be done by phone, in the middle of the night or at dawn, making his admissions feel that much more chilling. Sometimes we would meet for breakfast, always at a different restaurant, somewhere off the 10 freeway near his work. These places he chose were usually uninhabited and depressing. Our original plan, before we got in-depth with Frank, was to do a nonfiction work about all the punk rock gangs of the time, but the more we pressed, the more substantial his story became. Franks journey through punk rock was as magical as much as it was a nightmare, not to mention the authenticity of an old Hollywood landscape that has long since disappeared.

As Frank explained, of course there was blood and lots of it, but also much, much more. We felt that telling the story from Franks perspective, as a kid, in the moment, was the only way to write this bookforce readers to tie off and stick it in. Anything else would cheat the experience. During the lengthy five-year process, Frank was forced to take an honest look within and relive his horrific historya history of abuse, a life of regret.

Writing this book was a chance to deliver an uncensored account of the L.A. punk scene from the trenches, from one of its infamous monsters Frank the Shank. Maybe this book can serve as a warning, a cautionary tale for future generations. Dont waste your youth.

N.B. Some names have been changed to protect the guilty and the thoughts and opinions expressed in this book are not necessarily those of the authors.

A SECTION OF THE SLAM PIT abruptly came to a halt and fanned out. Three from the Pig Children gang started to advance, and then another four moved on us. Each one was a true Philistine: sizable, smelly, disgusting. Santino pulled his box cutter out and started slicing and dicing at anything that moved. The Governor and I were pushing and kicking for more space. Every inch mattered. A few guys ran off bleeding. One Pig Child got hold of Santino, they struggled briefly, but the inevitable always happened blood poured.

I counted six slashes to the chest.

The guys face turned white, reality set in, and down he went.

LMP! Want some, get some! threatened Santino.

Everybody backed the fuck upthe great equalizer once again proved its point. Shock seeped in as they surrounded their fallen.

Panic in Pig Park.

Santino, The Governor, and I stood tallheads cocked back, eyes of evil. The Pig Children took an even harder look and realized there were only three of us, with no backup, and started to rally numbers. Next thing we knew, a good 30 or 40 guys were coming at us from every direction yelling, Get em!

We went at it.

I dropped one and then two, steady as ever. The Governor was trading bombs and holding his own. Santino nailed a few with his fists then sliced another. Funny thing was, the Pig Children were hitting their own people as much as us. Thats what happens when you rage fight.

The Pig people kept coming and comingit was time to retreat. We couldnt win and we knew it. Where the fuck were Sailor and Mongo when you needed them?

I pulled my butterfly, hoping to scare off the rest, but they didnt buy it. Out of the corner of my eye, a shiny metal object caught the moonlight, and disappeared into Santinos back. His face showed recognition of pain, but he somehow managed to fight off another and another.

I saw deep red.

Santino fell to one knee and then dropped out of sight.

Our blood in their waterFuck that! Another minute and we were going to be in an all-out feeding frenzy.