Punker

I've said yes a lot and lived many lives. This is my story.

Often that came in the form of a question: Are you a punker? First of all, that’s not a real thing. And no, I was not punk rock in high school. I appreciated the aesthetic and raw energy but found the music to be too intense. Having said that, I discovered recently after listening to Dave Grohl’s autobiography that I can sing along to every popular punk rock song. So, maybe? Generally, my answer to my fellow high school mates was no. I’m New Wave and Goth. I had a foot firmly planted in both worlds though I really didn’t do Goth all that well. I was too healthy-looking and too brown from summers playing in a pool. That tan really killed the Goth vibe.

Music and dancing have always been my lifelines, even more so through the tortured and angry adolescent years than today. At 14, pre-New Wave, I discovered that I could walk right into the popular club in the next town over if I arrived early enough, swore I was 16, and didn’t try to buy booze. It was implicit that I would have no in and out privileges because I would not be able to show an ID while in line with others showing their ID. This was true of several clubs. I later figured out that it was a tactic employed by many to get cute girls in to draw in more men. Since I couldn’t drive yet, I was completely dependent on my friend Charlie whom I had a serious crush on. Not much ever came of it but I got many awesome nights of dancing. We always watched Saturday Night Live afterwards. My parents were entering the first year of their nasty five-year-long divorce battle and I was all kinds of angry. Dancing, music, and singing were my escape hatch.

By the time I was 17, I was fully immersed in this alternative culture that embraced creativity, was centered around music, and welcomed freaks and queers. I liked belonging to a tribe of misfits. I don’t know what kids have to do today to be considered weird. Back then, all it took to get your ass kicked or get harassed was wearing heavy eyeliner, dying your hair some unnatural color, and dressing in all black. I took to it like a duck to water. For the record, I had always been weird. A brown-skinned transplant who didn’t speak any English in an all-white elementary school wearing hand-me-downs did me no favors. I was different inside and out. I got used to being invisible until the start of high school. My best friend and I pledged to become more popular over the summer so that we could get boyfriends. It didn’t quite go as planned but I was finally noticed and asked by many kids where I transferred from. It was always a bit awkward when I had to tell them that we’ve been in the same classes since fifth grade. I was an outsider most of my school years with the exception of The Year I Tried Very Hard.

By 1985, I was 17 and had become friends with my friend Harry who was putting on underage events locally called Primary. I was heavily involved with setting up, security, and strike. I even drove several kids home whose rides left them behind on occasion. I designed the flyers which I learned people kept long into adulthood. I get it. It was our safe space and a time to remember. We were never so free again. I danced my ass off to all my favorite Goth and New Wave anthems: Everyday is Halloween by Ministry, Bella Lugosi’s Dead by Bauhaus, anything by Dépêche Mode, Siouxie and the Banshees, The Eurythmics… I brought my youngest sister with me who was 12 at the time because we were into the same music and culture. I knew she was flirting with my friends but I also knew that none of them were going to cross that invisible line. I don’t think anyone would have wanted to cross me.

I was the happiest, friendliest, really angry street-tough kid. It sounds like lip service so I’ll just say that I attended a pretty rough school district and I never turned down a fight, mostly to my disservice. I’m 5’3”. People don’t believe that I got into at least 10 fights through those years and by high school my reputation preceded me. I could issue threats and expect results. No one wants to get into a fight with the angry yet friendly misfit. I see the juxtaposition there—I contain multitudes, get used to it. I felt very strongly about little slutty becka giving shit to my sweet best friend so I made it clear she had to deal with me. Yeah, I really was like that. Also, I hit a boy so hard in the eight grade that I made him cry. I officially became a middle school badass. For the record, he started it. We were all trying to enter the hallway and someone shoved me into him. He turned around and slapped me. The indignity of it all was that it rendered my glasses askew on my face. I was mortified knowing I looked stupid. So I set my books down, straightened my glasses, took a step towards him, swung my arm back and clocked him so hard he fell and started crying. Ain’t nobody gonna mess with me now. I grew up with a lot of volatility at home. He had no way of knowing I was no stranger to violent behavior. Violence doesn’t solve any problems, and most things are simply not black and white. I know these things now because I have a fully developed pre-frontal cortex. Back then, I didn’t.

Speaking of home, my love of music and dancing began there. In Lebanon, I would play my little kid records and sing along in French. It was one of my absolute favorite pastimes. By the time I was a tween living in California I had my own record player. I would inherit my uncle’s records when he no longer had any use for them. I still don’t know why he would ever have given away Donna Summer’s 12 inch single remix of “I feel love” produced by Giorgio Moroder. Little known fact, I geek out on music trivia. I must’ve danced to it several hundred times. Of all the things my parents did not tolerate, somehow they tolerated me playing loud music nonstop. My friend June had the best records ever: Saturday Night Fever, Grease, Paul Anka. I would go to her house and we would just dance and dance and dance together. My parents had a great sound system, a Grundig that they had managed to ship from Lebanon after we escaped. I used to put on my mom‘s Jean Michel Jarre records and lay down with my arms outstretched and my eyes closed in the sweet spot on the carpet and trip out to the music. Even then I knew about the sweet spot. Did any other kids listen to Jean Michel Jarre when they were nine? Didn’t know, didn’t care. I was transported out of my body and became the music. By the way, this is the best way to listen to music if you have the time.

In high school, in The Year I Tried Very Hard, I was invited to a lot of parties. The very best thing about parties being thrown by people who were not white is the music. You could always count on good music and everyone danced. None of this sitting around and playing quarters with cheap beer. That came later and it didn’t last long. That was a very disappointing party phase in my life and I’m perfectly content to gloss over it. When I found my New wave/Goth tribe, I started going dancing in San Francisco. I even went as far as Fremont to a club called Stargaze. I didn’t live near a Bart train station so I would have to either beg my dad for a ride to the station, or take a 45 minute-long bus ride to get to there. Let’s just say that I was definitely committed to going dancing regularly. I went to a place in North Beach which did not card if you arrived early enough and gave them the birthdate that made you 18, as I mentioned previously. Unfortunately, the problem with taking the train was that the last one was at midnight. If I missed it, I wouldn’t be able to re-enter the club. If I got there at 9 PM it didn’t leave me a lot of time to enjoy the music and the new friends I was making. So I would usually dance until the club shut down, go to Clown Alley for some french fries and a milkshake, and hang out until the first train arrived. This posed a few challenges—getting on Bart at 6 AM increased the chances of my falling asleep on the way home, and more than once I woke up to a train full of business people wearing business attire, disorientated, and going in the wrong direction. It was still a lot of fun. Except for that part, especially since I would have to take a bus back home as well. I still went out twice a week, Sunday and Thursday nights. I lived for going out and dancing all night.

I went to a lot of concerts, as one does. In fact, I went to see the Cure twice. In 1985, they announced a competition inviting artists and writers to send in their contributions inspired by the title of their upcoming album, The Head on the Door. I’ve always used writing as an expression and outlet for how I experienced the world so naturally I submitted a poem. I was ready to do backflips when I found out that I was one of the chosen 20—there was never a single final winner. I received my permanently coveted black sweatshirt with my name in front written in The Cure style, with their names on the back. It was more than a conversation peice, it was a source of pride. I wore that thing until the black turned almost brown and would gladly continue to wear it if it hadn’t started looking so ratty. I don’t hold on to much but I’ll never get rid of this memento.

Primary drew kids from all over the Bay Area. East Bay native Christy Turlington, then still a teen but definitely a supermodel, attended once. My boyfriend at the time tried to talk to her and apparently she wasn’t very interested. Well friend, not everyone thinks you’re cool. All I have to say about it is deal with it. In 1985, the goth band from the UK, Specimen, came to San Francisco to record their album. I went to see them in San Jose, at Club X. Mark Pistel, the bassist from San Francisco band, Until December, played with them. This was before co-founding activist and industrial dance band Consolidated. The details are a bit fuzzy but I remember seeing Specimen’s lead guitarist, Gregg Smegg’s other band perform at The Twilight Zone in Alameda. Ever the opportunist, I went to speak to him after the show and asked if he’d be interested in having Specimen play at Primary. I connected him with Harry and believe it or not, they played a show there! To this day I don’t understand what happened to my signed record. I would never have given it away but looking back, I wouldn’t be surprised if my ex kept it. After Specimen’s show, I offered to host Gregg and one of the roadies—who’s name is don’t remember, unfortunately. Everyone slept on my tiny bedroom floor. I obviously still lived at home with my dad and this is one of the times that I’m grateful for his laissez-faire attitude towards parenting. Can my teen life get any cooler? Surprisingly, it did.

Harry was, and is still to date, one of the most generous people I know. He knew my home life was questionable at best and gave me a set of keys to his apartment in the Upper Haight as a respite. He would be on location at work for multiple days at a time so the place was often all mine. I would make him a large pot of something delicious as a thank you and for him to have good food to eat when he returned home. It also gave me the opportunity to hang around and explore the Upper Haight. In 1987, he won tickets from MTV to go backstage to see New Order, Echo & the Bunnymen, and Gene Loves Jezebel at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. It’s a beautiful outdoor venue with stadium bench seating. He put me on the guest list. I adored Gene Loves Jezebel the most and was so excited to see the show! He had one backstage pass and would lend it to one friend who would go backstage, check things out, then return and pass it on to the next friend. My turn came and I made my way shyly around, knowing that it wasn’t really my place and this was where the artists had a chance to relax and prep. But let me tell you, when I saw Gene Loves Jezebel walk near, I couldn’t resist telling them how much I loved their performance and that they had been my favorite. I did not expect one of them to lean over and kiss me on the cheek! I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t remember which of the twin brothers planted it, but then again, I was a little in shock and, well, in heaven!

One of my favorite post-punk bands of that era was New Model Army. I loved singer Justin Sullivan’s voice and energy. I went to see them every time they played San Francisco, at The I-Beam. The I-Beam was one of my favorite venues, never mind that I was underage. It has now become apartment buildings and I grieved the day it was no longer. I have such fond memories of being there. One of the times NMA played, I wanted so badly to meet Justin and talk to him as a normal person that I asked the security guy guarding the VIP room if I could give Justin something. I was quick on the draw with that one, the gift was totally improvised. It was what came to my mind first. Fortunately, I had a crystal attached to my super cool leather motorcycle jacket—the one I painted the Evil Queen from Snow White onto the back, (not because I liked her but because she was such a compelling figure of darkness.) Surprisingly, I was sent to the back and found myself in a tiny room with all the band members. All eyes were on me suddenly. Justin greeted me kindly and accepted my gift. He asked me a bunch of questions and it came out that I had been born in Lebanon and was French. We, actually just him, talked politics. I felt a bit ignorant that I didn’t follow the news about Lebanon. It just made me cry and feel helpless so to this day I avoid it. Once again, arriving early was key. One of my close friends worked there and would let me in hours before they opened their door. One time, the manager was checking IDs of everyone in the venue before opening the doors and we improvised that I could only speak French—easy, that’s my native tongue—and forgot my passport when asked to show proof of age. In all the years I attended the I-Beam, only once was I of legal drinking age and had my very own legitimate ID. Talk about good fortune! I also behaved myself. I never drank and pushed my luck.

Once Primary ran its course and closed down, I tried clubbing a few times and even went to one of the first raves in the Bay Area. I found clubbing to be unacceptable. I couldn’t feel free to dance under the drunken male gaze, getting bumped into incessantly, and I often drank way too much, felt like ass in the mornings, and eventually just stopped going. On Halloween, the evening before my 21st birthday, Harry treated me out to delicious Italian meal in North Beach, and to see Ministry at the I-Beam. He talked the restaurant into letting me order wine since I would be turning 21 at midnight, and he did the same again at the door of the I-Beam since they were a 21 and over venue. Watching Ministry, I ended up next to Mark Pistel and we chatted enough to plan to see each other again. I only have nice things to say about dating him for a couple months. He ranks high in quality individuals. I wasn’t known for making the best decisions back then. I struggled with dating nice men, which says a lot about me in those days. And it backfired constantly.

I remember one of our early dates. I took all kinds of public transportation from my dad’s house—I hadn’t yet moved out but definitely needed to—and walked up to his where he lived in the Western Addition wearing a floral, flouncy mini-skirt, black pumps, and a form-fitting black top. I was carrying a gym bag with a homemade vegan pumpkin pie because it was almost Thanksgiving. I was that kind of girlfriend. I don’t know for sure if my situation with alcohol and Chinese food occurred that weekend or another but it has stuck in my memory like the rice in my long hair. Need I say more? Mark was incredibly gracious about the incident and did not seem to pass judgment on my poor decision-making process, thankfully. He gifted me Avalon by Roxy Music for Christmas—which is still an insanely good album— and turned me on to Front 242, which I listened to a lot with my BFF, Memo, on our commute to work. Consolidated had formed by then and was performing at The Justice League, in north of the panhandle, now known as The Independent. I got to see him play with bandmates Adam and Philip, neither of which probably remember me—we didn’t interact much. I hung out backstage and was introduced to Michael Franti. It was a lot to take in and I’m terrible with names, however, I remember Michael because I’d seen the Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprasy and liked them.

Toward the end of the same year, I met a wonderful man and married him. He was kind and would become husband number one. Don’t judge, I have an adventurous spirit and believe in love. One time, we went dancing with his friends to a “party out somewhere in Livermore”. I squeezed into my black body con mini-dress and my platform sandals—the perfect outfit for clubbing, by the way. This girl does not dance in heels. As it turned out, we ended up taking some back roads to one of the pastures out in the middle of nowhere and arrived to repetitive electronic music beats. There was no venue. There was no parking lot. There was a lot of dirt. I suddenly felt really out of place. I mean, I was 23 and married, so my dancing days were long gone and I had no idea what the hell was going on here. I saw a smoothie bar and a bunch of kids running around with wide legged pants and floppy hats. I tried dancing in the dirt with my sandals, and remember turning to my friends and saying that I think I was missing something. Today I know what the answer to that was, and it’s pretty obvious to anyone who’s gone to a rave. Had I been prepared, I probably would have enjoyed myself. Definitely would have lost the mini-dress and sandals. Electronic music was a natural segue for the New Wave synth of the 80’s. I felt old and self-conscious in my inappropriate clubbing attire. Dejected and dusty, I went to the car and fell asleep while everyone else kept dancing. And that, my friends, was my first rave. This was 1990 and only the beginning.

@2026 Fabienne Jach. All rights reserved.