To my fellow outlaws, outcasts and misfits,
THANK YOU to everybody who subscribed from the anniversary post. Just a heads up, this post is for paid subscribers. If you would like to have access to my premium content, you can subscribe now or refer your pals, whichever you prefer!
And away we go…
I saw my first punk rock show when I was sixteen.
I was a sophomore in high school living on the back porch of my Aunt and Uncle’s apartment just off the corner of Harlem and Roosevelt (or 12th street for the old school Chicago readers.)
At the time, Clark and Belmont was the epicenter of the Chicago punk scene but none of us had yet made the pilgrimage.
The rumor was there were hundreds of punks milling around, smoking cloves, drinking Cisco or MD 20/20, fighting, trading buttons and clothes, walking-talking-living all things punk.
It sounded like heaven.
When we heard Naked Raygun was playing The Riviera, the plan was to take the El train, catch the show, then hop on the Broadway bus down to Belmont to see if the rumors about the scene were true.
We arrived at The Riv, the storied Chicago music venue, and there were punks everywhere with mohawks, leather jackets, boots or Docs, along with skinheads milling around in the shadows. Some of the skinheads were black.
I thought all skinheads were white power Nazis. But some punks explained that the skinhead movement originated in working class England as a way to bring black and white lower class kids together to fight the system.
The dominant multiracial skinhead crews in Chicago were SHOC Boys which stood for Skinheads of Chicago and ARA which was Anti-Racist Action. These crews fought white power Nazis from crews called CASH, WAR and Hammer skins.
The nazi skins were trying to recruit at the show and a huge fight broke out where one of the kids in our group got knocked out with a 2x4.
We went home bloody.
The next weekend I went back to Clark and Belmont and started hanging out with the people fighting the Nazis. I was raised by my grandfather who fought during World War II and in my angry and frustrated adolescent mind, this was my way of continuing the fight.
I quickly found myself at the epicenter and getting into fights almost every weekend. Carrying brass knuckles was a felony so the work around was duct-taping a roll of pennies. The only problem was you could only get off one good shot until the roll exploded and pennies went everywhere.
This motived the homeless guys milling around the scene to start the fights, hoping somebody made the rookie mistake of wrapping up a roll of dimes, so they could pick up the coins after the fight. The worst culprit of starting the fights was a large homeless Vietnam Vet named Bear.
One of the clubs at the center of the scene was “all ages” until midnight and then eighteen after.
The club was a den of inequity. Half naked teenagers fighting and fucking in dark corners while industrial music blared on the first floor and the punks and skins hung out on the third.
I always found myself in the middle of the action, until very quickly I was the head of a fifty person crew of anti-racist skins and punks. The other crews only let in punks or skins, never both, but I thought there was power in numbers.
I also let in ex-gangmembers.
One was an ex-Latin King recently paralyzed from the waste down after a Simon City Royal lit him up with a double barrel shotgun near Argyll. He was in a wheelchair and had a magnetic personality. He was older than everybody which carried weight and respect amongst the broken young men who never had fathers.
He quickly started making plays behind my back, but I didn’t know how tied in he was to his old gang so I treaded lightly. I put one of my most loyal guys next to him and had him talk shit about me to see if the older guy would take the bait.
He did and showed his true colors. He wanted to run the crew.
While I tried to figure out how to deal with him, I had another problem, negotiating whether or not heroin would be sold in the “all ages” club we hung out in.
I was dead against it and told the Vice Lord in charge of the drug trade in the neighborhood. He was not happy but knew I had numbers so I invited him to meet so we could talk it out.
We met on a Friday and walked east on Belmont Avenue. I had some of my guys. He had some of his as well as his loud girlfriend.
He pitched heroin hard. His gang had access and it made them a lot of money.
I told them they could sell it anywhere except the club or at the Dunkin Donuts at the corner of Clark and Belmont where everybody hung out. I wasn’t a straight edge but it felt like heroin was the line.
While we negotiated, Bear, the homeless Vietnam Vet, came strolling up holding a two liter of soda. He took a big swig then spit it right in the Vice Lord’s girlfriend’s face. She screamed while the Vice Lord and his guys immediately jumped Bear.
Bear fought back but was quickly overwhelmed. After they got some good shots in, I shouted, “He’s had enough,” and yanked them off Bear right as Chicago Police sirens chirped.
Everybody scattered except me. For a moment I forgot what city I was in and thought I would explain the situation to these kind reasonable officers but while I was mid-thought, a Chicago cop grabbed me by the back of my neck, slammed my face into the wall, cuffed me and tossed me into the back of a Paddy Wagon.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Mick Betancourt to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.