Publication:
HeartttaCk

Author:
Felix Von Havoc

HeartAttack #26
Top Ten:

Uncurbed-Holds the banner high
DS 13-LP and live
Shitlist-7"
Meanwhile-LP
M:PATI-7"
Bread and Water-both 7"s
From Ashes Rise-Live
Skitstystem-LP and Live
Nine Shocks Terror-Live
100 Bullets-comic book

It has come to my attention that there is an election going on. My feelings on the myth of democracy in America are well known. But one point needs to be made clear. A lot of liberal even leftist types will consider voting for Al Gore in order to keep the slightly more right wing George Bush out of office. Personally I don't see much difference at all between the two candidates or political parties. However, remember this, Al Gore is married to Tipper Gore who spearheaded that whole PMRC bullshit. Since most Heart Attack readers are probably too young to remember the PMRC was a crackpot group of politicians and religious leaders who tried to ban rock music. They were all about stamping out "immoral" rock music like Bruce Springsteen, Metallica, and of course the 2 Live Crew. I won't sit here and defend the merits of 2 Live Crew's music but it was the PMRC that gave us the stupid "Parental Advisory" stickers on records. Luckily those aren't enforced anymore but there was a time when it was illegal to sell records with those stickers to minors. Jello Biafra really got into it with this mob and I'm sure he's got two or three double LP's of spoken work ranting about it. I'm personally looking forward to joining the millions of American conciencious non-voters on election day. Whoever you vote for the system wins.

This issues theme is race. In my opinion the race, like so many other elements of American society has become totally subjected to commercialism and corporate interests, thereby robbing it of all its original cultural significance. Exactly when and where the first race was held is open to speculation but the true DIY spirit of racing has its origins in the backwoods of the south. During prohibition and the depression one of the only areas of economic activity open to poor southern hill folk was brewing moonshine whisky. This whisky, previously mostly consumed locally, was suddenly a hot commodity in urban areas like Memphis, Chattanooga, Atlanta, and Nashville. The automobile was the perfect vehicle for smuggling this product to market. However, local and later federal agents were dispatched to seek out the remote stills and arrest the smugglers. This led to some ingenious backwoods mechanics to start customizing or "hot rodding" the cars used for smuggling so they could out run the revenuers. It was only a matter of time before one driver boasted to another "my rig is faster than yours" to which the reply was something like "oh yeah, prove it" and the first drag race was born. One can imagine in 1920's and 30's rural America how exciting something like the two local moonshine syndicates racing their souped up cars on a dirt track would be. Racing was in the American blood, particularly in the South, to stay. There is a great movie Thunder Road starring Robert Mitchum which although set in the 50's dramatizes the life of the moonshine smuggler.

In the early 1960's my dad lived in New Orleans where my grandfather was stationed for a few years. Interstate 10 had just been completed through the city limits but not yet linked up with the rest of the system. Thus a four lane stretch of fresh new concrete cut right through the blue collar sections of town. In the true DIY spirit the kids tore down the barriers to the freeway ramps and set up their own DIY drag race track. Local kids, many still in high school, some working in garages and gas stations, labored night and day in driveways and front yards in every working class neighborhood of New Orleans. Beater cars were bought for 10 or 20 bucks and hot rod motors built up by hand on living room floors and lowered into them. Junkyards were stripped clean of performance parts. My dad and my uncle had only my grandfathers 52 Studebaker to work with but they rebuilt the engine from the bottom up for maximum performance. My dad told me about hopping junkyard fences late at night and using a pretty girlfriend to distract a guy while they stole the tires and wheels off his Mustang. On Saturday night the gleaming concrete of Interstate 10 was transformed into a DIY motor speedway as kids from all over New Orleans raced in 8 classes for cash, fame and glory. My dad's crew the Congress Street Raiders even temporarily forgot about other criminal activities to get into betting on drag racing. But this was not to last. It was only a matter of time before the cops showed up and shut down the races. One Saturday night as the kids packed into their cars and headed towards the action there were cops at every entrance to the freeway in town. So here we see the true spirit of American racing, the kids working on their own cars with their own skills create speed machines to challenge the system. The authorities shocked by such wanton disregard for the speed limit and private property cracked down on the kids. DIY racing continued from coast to coast, particularly in the south and in California until the early 70's.

The days of true DIY drag racing are over. Today's multimillion dollar NASCAR racing spectacle has as much in common with the races my dad drove in as the Super Bowl does to a game of two hand-touch at a punks picnic. The only DIY motorsports which remain are the demolition derby, motorcross and some muddin' events. As is so often the case in America everything, cool, unique, interesting that rises up from the bottom is commodified and sold back to us from the top. The spirit of the race lives on.

The classic existential road movie Two Lane Blacktop starring James Taylor is one of my all time favorites and makes a great double feature with Easy Rider. The main characters are drifters who roam from town to town in search of a race, not as a hobby, but as and entire way of life. Race to live, live to race. There is something very deep and telling about movies like Two Lane Blacktop and Easy rider. Something foreigners might have a hard time understanding. That restless impulse in the American spirit to just hit the road, to blaze a trail into the unknown. It's not just advertising hype that we associate our cars with freedom. There is a certain lure of the open road. I love that part in Mad Max where the Night Rider yells out "I'm layin' down a rubber road to freedom!" as the police chase him down the highway. And lets not forget the "Wild One" with Marlon Brando, a true classic of the young rebel and the lure of the open road.

Just as an aside, since this is the race theme issue, here's another story my dad told me about a race. This was probably about 1967. By this time my Grandfather had transferred to Washington DC and my dad was living in an apartment complex in Hillcrest Heights, Maryland. In those days there wasn't much suburban development yet and highway five quickly left the city behind and stretched out into the wide open of darkness and tobacco fields. One night my dad and four of his buddies were crammed into a souped up car and cruising up and down highway five looking for a race. In those days one would hang out at drive in restaurants or cruise up and down the road checking out other cars. A race could be talked up in parking lot or arranged by hand signals at a stoplight. My dad and his crew met up with a drunk surly guy in big powerful car who wanted to race them for cash. Bets were laid and a finish line determined. To even out the weight my dad and one of his friends had to ride in the drunken man's car. As the light changed and they sped off into the darkness my dad felt his foot bump into something under the seat. He reached down and felt a gun in its holster. As the driver was totally absorbed by the high-speed action my dad was able to reach down and slip the gun from its holster. He then passed it to his friend sitting next to him who was wearing a jacket. This cat slipped the gun into his pants under the jacket. My dad then reached down again and felt another object, this was a wallet. Intent on plundering it he flipped it open and felt….A BADGE! The Hillcrest Heights gang was involved in a drag race with a cop! The first heat was inconclusive. At the finish line my dad and his friends managed to talk the cop into another race this time with all the kids in their own car, back to the original start line. The cop agreed and the race was on. But as the finish line was reached and the cop slowed to a stop, my dad and his mob kept going racing back into the city and anonymity. My dad later stuck up a pool hall with that pistol but that is a whole 'nother story.

Publication Date:
January 1, 1988

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