If you take a look at the outstanding Instagram page punkhouseoakland, you may have one of several reactions. For those who lived through it, there may be a warm nostalgia; A yearning for a time full of fun, camaraderie, and very little responsibility. You may feel embarrassment; Memories of time wasted, drug addiction, disfunction, broken homes, crime, and jail cells. Or, you may simply see a bunch of kids who really needed baths.
I am of the former, and have extremely fond memories of that time period. I lived in various “punkhouses” in Oakland throughout the early and mid-1990’s. I was a transplant from the suburbs. I had fled the closed-minded restraints of Cowtown, USA to live out my punk rock dreams on the streets of the big, bad city. The first thing that I did upon arrival was to spend more time with the first love of my life: alcohol. I began getting shitfaced drunk on a daily basis and did so for years. My income came from panhandling on Telegraph Avenue and collecting and trading or selling Food Stamps. I spent nearly all of it on beer, wine, cider, and cigarettes. I had zero responsibilities or obligations. I never paid rent, cleaned house, or contributed productively to anything at all during that time. My life was freeze-framed for several years in a non-stop rock n’ roll party.
Manilla & 51st Street
This was a house rented by two “rich” college girls from San Diego. For some reason, they let a bunch of punks crash in a converted garage out back. There were about seven of us living there at any given time. There were three mattresses on the floor, two of which were curtained off to make individual “rooms.” There was also a closet that served as an additional, more private room. The walls and ceiling were heavily graffitied. Guests, both local and visiting, were entertained nightly. Sometimes we even commandeered the entire house, like the time a huge party was thrown for my 18th birthday. I was brought a plethora of intoxicating gifts and puked on the floor. This place did not seem to last long, and after a breakup with a girlfriend, I was “rescued” by friends and brought to a new home.
Park Blvd.
This house is the most unexpected of the bunch. It was a one-room apartment rented by a friend’s girlfriend. They shared the bedroom while between 4 to 6 of us dregs crashed in the living room. That catch was, we couldn’t make any noise. We had to be quiet at night. Really quiet. And, I shit you not, we were. Music was played at a low volume while several of the loudest individuals in town drank beer, smoked weed, tripped on acid, and whispered to each other. We would come home from a show, totally tanked out of our minds, and never make a peep. The quiet also allowed us to hear everything else that was going on in the building. Some nights, we would hear the same tenant dragging something down the stairs. Clomp, clomp, clomp, we would hear, before his car drove off and returned an hour later. This was in the middle of the night, and we made jokes about living next to a serial killer. This was a good place. It was clean and in a nice neighborhood. I thought that the only close liquor store charged way too much for beer, but as the proprietor was fond of telling us, “This convenience store, you pay for convenience. You no like my prices, you go Lucky’s, friend.”
19th St. & Castro
By far, this was the punkhousiest of all the punkhouses that I lived in. Another friend had rented the apartment below us on Park, and eventually everyone figured out that they could pool all their shit together and get a really nice place, loafers like me in tow. A big house was rented in the heart of Downtown Oakland. We were right on “the track” where hookers of all genders would ply their trade at night. We were a block away from a cheap liquor store where crack was peddled out front around the clock by gangbangers. There was a giant living room where nightly parties took place. Another living room full of musical equipment where bands would practice. Three bedrooms were upstairs for the rent payers, and a skate ramp was built in the backyard.
This place was straight out of the movie Suburbia. Punks, skins, parties, fist fights, pit bulls, spilled ashtrays, and piles of garbage out back that got so bad, the city authorities got involved. We had befriended a drug dealer who sold mostly psychedelics. He would stop by whenever he had a new batch of acid and dose the entire house, mostly free of charge. Many nights were spent tripping balls, clowning on each other until dawn. Unwanted guests were sometimes ejected violently. People would show up to party and still be there a week later. It was a never-ending bash of irresponsible, reckless debauchery.
One of my favorite memories of the 19th Street house was the discovery of St. Idea Special Brew. It was a fruit-flavored malt liquor that sold for $1.25 for a 16-oz bottle. I had brought some home one night, and after a bottle was passed around, half the house was hooked. Several trips to the liquor store later, the entire shelf was depleted and we were all piss drunk.
It was also the house where I was turned on to the greatest musical genre known to man: Country. My friend Matt (RIP) came to visit one day with a mix tape in tow. The label on it read: “100% Peckerwood.” Up until then, I was only familiar with garbage like Kenny Rogers or Alabama. My ears perked, and a fuse was ignited in my brain the second I heard Merle Haggard singing, “I turned 21 in prison doing life without parole…” The compilation also included Hank Jr., George Jones, and others that I can’t quite recall right now. I have overdosed on and obsessed over so much great country music since then that those first few tracks have become hazy. My usual rotation at the time of GG & The Jabbers, Anti-Heros, Skrewdriver (Yes, them. What can I say? I was edgy, don’t ya know?), and the Misfits were put on the back burner that day.
There were other places, here and there. I crashed for brief periods in my friend Rachel's basement with two other friends (who were the ones actually paying the rent). If memory serves me correctly, the house was somewhere in the "Dirty 30s" and several people were robbed coming and going. Upstairs in the main house, they leaned toward the gothic side of punk and shared their abode with several snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas.
As the song goes: harder-core than thou for a year or two, then it’s time to get a real job. No way could I ever fucking live that way now. All of the hangovers and BO and obnoxious shit-talking would be unbearable these days. But I wouldn’t trade that time for anything in the world. It was an experience that was absolutely necessary for me to partake in. A giant storm that was cloudy enough so that the road’s end was never quite visible. Some people are born to have their nose to the grindstone. I needed a little chaotic detour on the journey into real adult life. Whatever damage I did was totally worth it.
