Puttin’ on the Ritz: A Look Back at a Pivotal Year of Austin Hardcore by Craig Underwood!

In 1982, hardcore was the hottest thing going in punk rock, both in Austin and nationwide. But in Austin the punks had lost their great club, Raul’s — which had spawned the scene– and the new hardcore bands were shut out from playing any of the town’s main rock & roll clubs, dominated by hippies (or ex-hippies, whatever they were in 1982). The punks could play small clubs hard-pressed to hold a hundred people, but interest in hardcore had grown to such extent that a larger venue was sorely needed, one that would hold a crowd of several hundred, especially when the hot out-of-town bands came to play. On the West and East Coasts bands such as The Misfits, Minor Threat, Black Flag and Dead Kennedys were playing to large crowds, and Austin bands such as the Big Boys had connections to these bands, wanting desperately to bring them to town.

At the time, I was working at the Ritz Theatre downtown on 6th Street, the town’s main entertainment drag, which was undergoing transformation from a funky, ethnic mix of small clubs to a so-called projected ‘entertainment district’ featuring new-fangled ‘fern bars’ and yuppie white tablecloth restaurants. In 1980, Ronald Reagan had taken office in the White House, and his Republican economic agenda had begun to loosen the national purse strings. Big money from Houston and Dallas, even California and New York, was beginning to flow into Austin. The skyscrapers that dominate the city today were being planned and designed.

Austin’s Ritz Theatre — and indeed, half of 6th Street — was under renovation in 1982. The Ritz was torn up inside from years of neglect. Back in the day — the mid-1970’s — it had been an important music venue for Austin’s hippie/Cosmic Cowboy scene, when that scene held court at the Armadillo World Headquarters. Gigs at the Ritz had been run by artist and scenemonger poobah Jim Franklin, also from the ‘Dillo. But by the late 70’s the Ritz had gone seriously downhill, even becoming a venue for porno movies. Then it became vacant altogether and suffered a near-death experience. In 1982, Mike Shelton and Shannon Sedgwick obtained the lease on the Ritz with plans to house their successful follies revue —Esther’s Follies– on the Ritz’s large, classic, wonderful stage. But the three-hundred seat theatre proved too big — not intimate enough — for such a show. Esther’s Follies moved back to their own smaller venue, leaving Mike and me — the Ritz’s only employee — to continue work on the renovation, slowly, ever so slowly. It was truly a DIY renovation. We barely had enough money for paint.

One day in April Randy Turner — aka Mister Biscuit — walked in and asked to speak with Mike and Shannon, whom he had known for years. Randy was old for a punk rocker — in fact, probably the oldest guy in the scene — old enough even to have been a hippie (see photo below, feauring a fifth grade photo from Biscuit in Sugar Land!). Mike and Shannon were ex-hippies, same age as Randy. They certainly weren’t punks, like Randy, but they were no longer hippies. They had moved on. By 1982, there was still a handful of hold-out hippies left in Austin, but they were obviously an irrelevant lot, desperately hanging on to outdated values and cultural mores. Punk was the new kid in town, and definitely the most exciting art movement going.

But in 1982, most Austin hippies or ex-hippies had neither use nor respect for punk rock. They hated the art, they hated the music. They hated the fashion, they hated the politics. Most of all, they hated the attitude of punk. I like to believe that they hated it because they hadn’t really taken the time to look at it — (at all of the above) seriously — that they had formed their opinions based on media coverage rather than first-hand experience. Because deep-down there were similarities, especially in politics and attitude.

So, one day in April Randy walked in and asked to book a gig at The Ritz…said he wanted to throw a huge show featuring six or seven local bands including The Dicks and his own popular Big Boys. Headlining the show would be Black Flag, from Los Angeles, perhaps the hardest of the national hardcore bands. They had played Austin before, at a jampacked but small venue. Randy was optimistic they could pack 500 people into a place as big as the Ritz. Mike and Shannon said yes, then turned the logistics of handling the gig over to me. “Think you can handle it?” “Uh, I guess so…”

The date of the show was set for Saturday night, May 8. It certainly promised to be a challenge. I mean, we had no staff at the Ritz…we had no security. We had only a shell of a theatre. We had no stage curtain, no backdrop. The lighting system was fucked-up. We even had limited seating as Mike and I had been busy ripping out the ratty, cum-stained seats on the main floor, having already removed more than half. We had no concession facilities, and certainly no beer license.

Oh well, I felt up to the challenge. I was at a point in my life where I was looking for excitement. I had been involved in the local poetry scene, but was bored stiff with its lack of energy and stimulation. At the age of thirty-two, I felt too old to be a punk, but I was intrigued with the punk scene. I loved punk art, and I loved punk writing, especially the fanzines. I had previous experience throwing rock & roll gigs, so this was something I felt I could do. I had a couple of connections to the punk scene, so I called em up and asked for their help. One, Helen Harmon, had an all-girl band called The Whoom Elements. Being a musician, of course the first thing she said was “Can my band play?”

“Uh, I’m afraid that’s out of my control, Helen…Randy’s booking the bands.” “Hey, I have an idea. The Whoom Elements aren’t big enough yet to draw a large crowd, but we have a small following and can certainly bring in some folks…what say we do a gig on Friday night, the 7th, the night before the big Black Flag show? You could use it as kind of a test run…you know, work out the kinks in your logistics of handling a show? What say, can we do a gig?” “Well, why not?” I said.

And we were off and running. In no time, with Helen’s help, I had lined up staff to do the door and work minimal security, both Friday and Saturday nights. Luckily, we discovered that there was a clause in the Texas liquor law which stated that if the owner of a license wanted to ‘cater’ a gig off premises of his license he could get ‘a temporary permit’ enabling him to sell at the new site. Since Mike and Shannon had a beer & wine license at their other venue — Esther’s Pool — they were eligible to get a temporary permit to sell for the weekend at the Ritz. Mike went to the liquor board and got the permit, flipped it to me and I drove to a liquor supply store and bought a carload of Budweiser and a case of jug wine. I called friends and lined ‘em up to work the bar. The week before the gig I spent many hours cleaning the theatre, trying to whip it into shape for the gig. I scored a huge sheet of black plastic, standard garbage bag material, and hung it above the stage as a backdrop. We found an old hippie from the Armadillo to work on the lighting system. The buzz on the gig was huge…all week the Ritz’s phone rang off the hook…folks asking about the show. Many expressed great surprise that we dared even book it. The hardcore scene had a wild and wooly reputation. Folks thought we were signing our own death warrant…”Uh, aren’t you afraid your theatre will be destroyed…I mean, I’ve heard those hardcore punks are really destructive.” From some of the comments, you’d have thought we had booked a bunch of escapees from the Texas prison system. I must admit I had a few reservations myself. I had never even seen a ‘hardcore’ gig. I had read the fanzines, and heard some stories about wild gigs in California and elsewhere, but I hadn’t seen it. I didn’t really know what was meant by the term ‘hardcore.’ Deep down, I had no real idea what I was in for.

Yet by Friday, May 7, I felt as ready as I could be. And the Whoom Elements gig went smoothly, not a large crowd, but big enough so that everyone made a little money and had a good time. We had no problems and were able to work out a few kinks in the logistics of throwing a gig. Enter Saturday, May 8…

I was at the Ritz by 10 o’clock in the morning, so excited I couldn’t stay in bed and sleep. I cleaned up in the theatre for a couple of hours, then when I went to take a lunch break I found a couple of punks already camped outside the front doors, waiting for the gig. One tall, gangly guy who looked about sixteen years old sheepishly introduced himself as ‘Jeff something-or-other’ …said he and his friend were down from Ft. Worth/Dallas where they were in a band called The Hugh Beaumont Experience. This guy would grow up to become known all over the punk world as King Coffey, later of the Butthole Surfers.

Around four in the afternoon, I was inside stocking the bar when this tired-looking fellow ambled in. He didn’t look like a punk rocker, or, at least, my image of one, but he introduced himself as “Greg, with Black Flag. We’re here…where can we park our van and load in?” I took him to the back alley where I saw the Black Flag road-wagon awaiting, an equally tired-looking, beat up van towing a small U-haul. Both van and U-haul were obviously loaded to the gills, sagging so badly that each seemed to sit right on top the pavement. I mean, that was one ‘beat’ road van. Then out tumbled the equally ‘beat’-looking members of the band. They still didn’t look much like punk rockers to me, one was even a black guy with an Afro, but then I saw their front man and singer, young Henry Rollins. Now, HE definitely looked like a punk rocker — a hardcore punk rocker — shaved head, combat fatigues, mad-at-the-world scowl upon face, sleeveless T-shirt exposing heavily muscled and tattooed arms…I mean, this guy had the look. I avoided him like the plague, and confined my conversation to the normal-looking Greg Ginn (see photo below from Citizene Mag, shot in 1982 ).

All I remember from that point on are snippets. As Black Flag loaded in, I busied myself getting ready for the gig. Soon, the sound man arrived and set up his equipment, followed by members of some of the opening bands and assorted punks and curiosity seekers. On the bill that night were new bands Sunday Worship Service, the Pagans, and I think one more that I have forgotten…also Saccharin Trust (I think friends of Black Flag)…to be followed as the evening went on by the two heaviest hitters of the Austin punk scene at the time — the Dicks and Big Boys. It promised to be a long night. Thankfully, some of the new bands only knew three or four songs and couldn’t possibly be on stage long.

When the long-anticipated gig began, I was mostly too busy troubleshooting, handling anything and everything — from the door to the bar to the lighting board upstairs to the bathrooms in the lobby to the dressing rooms in back — to be able to pay attention to the music onstage, but I do remember having a few seconds to stand at the back of the main floor and observe the unfolding scene. I remember Johnny Rat, popular editor of the fanzine Xiphoid Process, bouncing in with a wide-eyed look on his face and exclaiming, as he took in the scope of the layout of the Ritz- “Man, this place is huge!” Compared to some of the crackerboxes in which the punks had been playing up until then, it was.

As an old hippie, I loved stage lighting, and had spent quite a bit of time working with the ex-Armadillo light man trying to get our lights in decent shape. We could barely afford new bulbs, and had only a minimum of gels and frames. What we managed to come up with wasn’t great, but I felt it would at least get us through the gig. We could upgrade later. To augment what we had, I had rigged up both a strobe light and blacklight and hung them not far from the stage. One reason lighting was important was because the theatre itself was so ugly, and in the midst of our so-called ‘renovation’. Good stage lighting would help direct attention to the stage, which was in great shape, perhaps the only part of the theatre that wasn’t torn up. Our house lights were bare, exposed, 150-watt bulbs that, when turned on, revealed the wretched state of the theatre in all its dumpiness. I sure didn’t want them turned on. Yet, sometime not long into the gig Henry Rollins himself came onstage, took a look up the lights and said, “Hey, can we douse the stage lights and get the house lights turned on…we want to see you guys!”

I was disappointed, but I gave him what he wanted. I hit the switch on the garish house lights and presto, some 1000 watts later the ugliness of the Ritz in all its dilapidated glory was exposed for all in attendance to see. There would be no groovy hippie lighting this night.

As I stood in back watching and observing, Sunday Worship Service was about halfway through their 4-song set when I saw several guys looking up at my improvised black light and pulsating strobe, making weird gestures. All of a sudden one of em threw something and knocked out the strobe, which died with a whimpering fizzle. His buddies erupted in laughter and gave him a pat on the back. Then another walked over and unplugged the black light. I didn’t make a fuss…I had read the fanzines and knew punks didn’t like anything that smacked of ‘hippie-ness’. No biggee. As far as problems went, I soon had much bigger fish to fry.

As stated, the Ritz was a big place…lots of ground to cover. I soon got a report that some punks were around back, trying to sneak in. Another report had ‘em up on the roof, throwing rocks at the skylight of the condo next door, which was owned by a former city council member, who could, and eventually would, make big trouble for us. Another report had a gang of punks raising hell on Sixth Street, in prime time at eight o’clock on a Saturday night. Bingo, I was off to the races, spending most of the rest of the evening running from one place to the next, troubleshooting. One thing I didn’t have to troubleshoot was the air-conditioning system, as there wasn’t one. Ergo the place was hot and half the crowd probably spent half that night camped outside the front door in-between sets trying to cool down. Whenever I went out the front door to check out the street scene, I found it quite a circus. The Ritz had a typical entrance for a movie theatre, with a good-sized open area outside the front doors in which folks could stand around waiting to get in to a show. This night the area was packed with punk-rockers, in all their spiked hair, dyed hair, torn T-shirt, spike bracelet glory, all right smack in the middle of Austin’s new-fangled fern bar “entertainment district”- the Chamber of Commerce’s much-ballyhooed projected upcoming “Bourbon Street of Texas.” Walking right by the Ritz’s gang of punks were yuppies, business execs, frat boys, sorority chicks, jocks, drunks, rednecks, conservative Christians, working-class slobs, middle-class normal people, curious art types, etc.,…a wide assortment of folks…all milling around looking for the heart of a Texas Saturday night.

Meanwhile, back inside the Ritz one gang of adventurous punks had discovered and broken into a costume storage room located on the mezzanine, used by theatre troupe Esther’s Follies. Next thing, I knew punks were spilling out the front door of the Ritz lavishly dressed in costume, hot to display their new threads to the world, or at least to the street. One guy sported a Carmen Miranda paper-mache fruithead and took off strutting down Sixth Street. A cute little spiked-hair punkette came out draped in a magnificent feathered boa constrictor followed by a guy in a Viking helmet and fur loincloth, followed by others in togas or capes or whatever they had found in the costume room. I couldn’t chase ‘em down because there was too many of em…and besides, it was pretty funny, a regular punk costume parade…too bad these were the days before everybody had video cameras.

Unfortunately, I was way too busy troubleshooting that night to remember anything at all of the sets by either the Big Boys or Dicks. One thing I do remember was that when each took the stage almost everyone from outside flocked back inside the theatre, which was good, as it took away from the weirdness out on the street. I heard later that there had been a couple of fights and/or altercations out on the street –punks versus passersby — but nothing too serious. Serious trouble would come in later gigs.

By the time Black Flag took the stage it must have been one o’clock. All the trouble of the evening seemed to have run its course, or maybe I just blew it all off and said to hell with it, figuring it was time for me to at least catch one set of this show on which I had worked so hard. I went backstage and gradually made my way on to the stage itself, taking up position off to the side by one of the huge sound system speakers. I remembering thinking at the time- “Hey, I’m on stage with Black Flag…pretty cool!”

And there they were, just ten to twenty feet away, playing with a fury I had never seen before in all my hippie days. I mean, I had seen Hendrix, I had seen the Stones, the Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, early Allman Brothers…all kinds of intense rock & rollers. I had never seen…or heard…anything like Black Flag. Mild-mannered Greg Ginn was attacking his guitar like it was a machine gun, and Chuck D was flailing away at his with the intensity of an NFL linebacker sacking a quarterback. The drummer –the little guy with the Afro– was throwing up a wall of sound that threatened to literally bring down my improvised garbage baggie curtain hovering atop the theatre proscenium right above his drum kit. But most intense of all was frontman Henry Rollins, looking like a demented Marine as shirtless he prowled the stage, half-singing, half-growling out his lyrics (see Chicago photo, at other venue, by Ken Mierzwa below).

At one point, he prowled the stage far left, coming to a stop a mere two feet from where I stood by the side speaker. The punks down front in the first rows were going crazy, crushing atop one another as they reached arms up to stage-bang and/or grab at Henry. The stage of the Ritz sits about five feet high, so the heads of the punks were about level with Henry’s feet. One excited punk decided to take it to the next level and jump onstage. We didn’t have any security, on purpose. Not only was I an old hippie, but I was an anarchist to boot…and didn’t believe in security…other than the original punk DIY security. For this gig, I was the security. I even had a helmet on, which I had taken off one of the costume-plundering punks out on the street. It looked kinda like the goofy helmet motorcycle-riding Jack Nicholson wore in Easy Rider.

I had sure hoped that there would be no real need for security this night…but when that punk jumped onstage with Henry it looked like I was going to have to go into action. Henry went into action his own self. Holding the mic in one hand…with the other he reached down and grabbed that kid by the collar of his T-shirt and brought him fully on stage. Then he squatted down on top of him, pinning the guy with his knees. Then he sang/growled as loudly as he could, right smack in that punk’s face. The kid looked horrified. He was staring up at Henry, about ready to cry. I didn’t know what Henry was going to do…I thought he might hit the kid. I didn’t want that, so I bent right down there with the both of them and stuck my face just inches away from Henry’s. I still didn’t know what he might do…it occured to me that he might hit me. I clenched both my fists and got ready to grab his if he should strike out and try to hit either that kid or me.

But nothing happened. Henry kept singing away in that punk’s face and finished the song that way, with the kid pinned down beneath him…with me crouched there by ‘em both, ready to spring into action. Thankfully, there was no action. When the song ended Henry let the kid up and the kid jumped down offstage about as quick as a kid could jump offstage. After the gig, I said something to Henry about the incident and he said he had it under control the entire time…that he was just trying to teach the kid a lesson about jumping onstage. From what I saw of the look on that kid’s face, I can only imagine that he got the message. I doubt he ever jumped onstage again the rest of his punk life.

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When the gig finally ended there was just the greatest buzz in the air. I mean, I think that was one historic gig for Austin. Everybody seemed to have had the greatest time. In coming weeks the fanzines would write fantabulous words of praise about it. In Xiphoid Process, Johnny Rat (see above photo) called it “one tough show.” Short but sweet. Everybody loved the Ritz, and all the local bands would soon come calling asking for gigs. Not only the locals…the telephone soon started ringing off the hook…”This is the Misfits from New York…we’re coming to town, can we do a gig?” “Hi, this is the Circle Jerks, from LA…we heard you guys we’re doing gigs? Can we do a show in June?” (see photo below!) “Hello, this is Husker-Du, from Minneapolis…” “Hi, we’re Minor Threat, from DC…” (see photo further below).

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Over the course of the summer, we would do em all, and then some. It didn’t last long, but it was exciting while it lasted. A series of police busts got us in big trouble with the law, with the Austin chief of police virtually shutting down the Ritz himself, almost literally ordering me to “git out of town by sunset” just like they used to do in the Western movies. After our final show, a real hoedown featuring the Dead Kennedys, one of the local writers gave us about the greatest compliment I think he could give a rock & roll show when he wrote- “Allen Freed would have loved it.”

The most important thing about those early gigs at the Ritz was that they proved there was a big audience in Austin for hardcore, and that the gigs could be managed. Soon after, the Ritz quit booking shows the main rock club of Austin, Club Foot, opened its doors to the punks and the scene moved over there. Club Foot had security and were better set up to handle the scene. Soon other clubs agreed to book punk shows. But it was the experience of the Ritz that had opened the doors. And the experience of the Ritz had started with Randy Turner, and the Big Boys. They had booked that first gig. And since Randy had started it, I’ll let him finish it. He’s gone now, no longer with us…gone to that great headlining gig in the sky and unable to speak for himself…but he gets the last word here anyway. After that first night’s gig, I can remember being outside the Ritz cleaning up the entrance area. A handful of folks were still milling around…it must have been three in the morning. Some of the old hippies and troupe members from Esther’s Follies had come down…they’d heard reports of punks running up and down Sixth Street wreaking havoc, dressed in their costumes. Mike and Shannon had come down to collect the door receipts…estatic at the take. Even Jim Franklin was there…the great Jim Franklin, grand poobah of world famous Armadillo World Headquarters…probably the greatest artist produced by the (once) great Austin hippie scene. I can’t remember much of what went down outside the theatre as I was busy cleaning up…but I very vividly remember Jim Franklin ranting. He had been surveying the scene both inside and outside the Ritz- he had seen the trash, the mountain of beer cans rolling around the Ritz’s main floor- and he was beside himself, ranting on and on about “punk rockers this…punk rockers that…look at this shit! What is this? Blah-blah-blah…”

No disrespect meant to Jim Franklin here…I have the greatest respect for his art. And I am very much paraphrasing his words…I don’t remember what exactly he was saying. But he was ranting…I do remember that. And I remember that it was definitely NOT a favorable rant. He was NOT impressed with what he had seen this night from Austin’s punk rock scene. And I do remember that at some point as he was ranting I saw and heard a very calm Randy Mister Biscuit Turner very gently come up to him and just kind of wait patiently for him to finish ranting and then when Franklin seemed to have exhausted himself with whatever he was saying about “blankity-blank punk rock this…blankity-blank punk rock that” Randy very kindly and gently dared to interject his own interpretation of what had just gone down, both inside the Ritz and outside on the street, as he very calmly and respectfully looked into Franklin’s rabidly disturbed eyes and said simply and softly, “But Jim…it’s art…it really is.”

I remember thinking- “Now, this is an important moment in history. Here you have the great artist of the old- the hippie- being answered by a great artist of the new- the punk.”

It was truly a changing of the guard.

Postcript: I’ll let the punk historians document what went on in coming years. As I remember, the hardcore scene raged for a while as the most popular thing in town, then gradually burned itself out. The Big Boys themselves would go through a crashing, unhappy break-up, with disgruntled band members parting ways, then going on to form other bands. As for hippie artist supreme Jim Franklin? Well, I left Austin in 1987 and on a return visit circa 1994 I went to a happy hour gig at the Continental Club where who should I see onstage with a guitar, trying out his new self-described “punk rock” songs? Yep, Mister Jim himself. Talk about “come around, go around…”

Note: The last three photos were shot and supplied to LOTD from Dixon Coulbourn, RIP, of the infamous Idletime zine, before he died.

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