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Maximum RockNRoll — “GG Allin Found Dead!!!” — MMR News (August, 1993)

"GG Allin Found Dead!!!" MMR News (Maximum RocknRoll August 1993)

MaximumRockNRoll #123 – August 1993

GG Allin Found Dead!!!

New York, June 27 – G.G. Allin died of a drug overdose following one of his more violent shows. Having done coke all day, he left a show at NY’s Gas Station, stark naked, attacking passers-by, and evading a dozen cop cars sent to quell a bottle-throwing riot that flowed out into the street after only 2 songs got played. Many people were beaten up or knocked unconscious by “friends” of G.G. Deciding to “get higher,” he ended up doing smack, and when his group of revelers woke up the next morning, one of them didn’t. Not out with a bang, but with a whimper, but he did live up to most of his tattoos

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"GG Allin Found Dead!!!" MMR News (Maximum RocknRoll August 1993)


The Scatalogical Terrorist:
His Last S.F. Show, A Fond Remembrance?

For years I’ve enjoyed reading accounts of G.G. Allin shows in fanzines, and I thought I’d provide my own for the record. I missed the last chance I remember to see G.G. Allin at the Covered Wagon Saloon several years ago (I think I was too intimidated to go), so I didn’t want to miss him this time through. It was at the latest incarnation of the club at 650 Howard in San Francisco, on Monday, May 24.

I could tell it would be an unusual night when I was almost pissed on and had my beer confiscated before I even got near the entrance. In line I heard a rumor that G.G. wasn’t in town. As I entered I paid my $12.00, and I was thoroughly searched; the aroma of stink bombs wafted through the air. Like the protagonist from The Red Badge of Courage I wondered if I’d turn and run when the shit started to fly. I remember thinking that I didn’t want any bodily excrements or fluids on me: piss, shit, spit and blood came to mind.

The first band was Total Fucked. They had a few little spats with members of the audience to set the mood. It was clear during their set that the guy off to the side of the stage running the P.A. with the “Al’s Sound” jacket was very uptight about the microphones and mike stands. (And he angrily shoved some kid in the audience who kept grabbing the mikes.) I figured that he would be entertaining to watch throughout the night. As their set ended equipment was toppled, and an announcement was made over the house speakers, emphasis placed on the self-evident; that was TOTAL Fucked.

Between bands I overheard someone speculating with a friend what the sound man’s reaction would be when Marian of The Insaints “shoves a mike up her cunt.” I hadn’t even realized The Insaints were playing. I ran into an old friend of mine, Peg. She told me that she would be performing during The Insaints set, which was next. Knowing Peg, I figured her performance would be outrageous.

The Insaints took the stage and started playing, Marian drawing the most attention for being naked and pierced. She soon pissed; she soon spread. Someone from Total Fucked fingered her. Marian rushed guys in the audience, sometimes kissing them hard on the mouth, other times shoving them and yelling things like, “You fucking suck!” It was a pretty amazing contrast. Soon other women joined Marian onstage. Many in the crowd rushed and surrounded the stage in a frenzy. Some guys jumped on people’s heads, trying to get a better view. The balcony filled with people. Depending on where you stood in the club you could catch glimpses of fisting, strap-on dildo fucking, etc., all with lots of lubrication. There was also a strange water sports/punk rock spitting war breaking out that I didn’t want to get too close to. (It definitely involved at least two or three bodily excrements and/or fluids.) The Insaints’ set ended with Marian apparently pissed at the guy from Al’s Sound; the mikes and stands were angrily hurled off stage. Spit had been spat, urine had been flicked; it had been an interesting mix of punk rock and hardcore sex.

Someone told me that in the bathroom a guy was filling plastic beer cups with pissified water from the toilets. I remember having the odd thought that it would be nice if that guy were only planning to drink that water. Eventually the Murder Junkies started playing, and after a sufficiently dramatic buildup (which included more stink bombs from the audience) G.G. took the stage, naked, smashing a forty ounce bottle. He sported a goatee and a shaved head. He was hit with a few plastic cupfuls of yellowish liquid. It was a strange sight; G.G. was flanked on the stark stage by a guitarist and bassist, one of whom wore a combat helmet and Hitler-type moustache. The other had long hippyish hair and sunglasses. The drummer wore women’s pants. They had home made looking tattoos. Over the stage were women in leather in cages, who sang and danced along with all the G.G. Allin and the Murder Junkies’ songs. The backdrop was an American flag with the name of the band painted across it, the “A” in Allin circled. The audience wasn’t enthusiastic enough about providing a fucked-up situation, so G.G. had to handle it.

He kept most people far away from the stage with his frequent jaunts throughout the audience. One punk in front of me in the disco ball lit “dance floor” area stood his ground and was swaying, almost dancing, when G.G. approached; G.G. then decked him with a vicious right. He also hit a girl in the face, then hit her again, and was finally hit back by a guy standing next to her. Later, a blonde girl who approached G.G. on one side of the stage, and seemed to kiss him, in return had her hair grabbed and face bashed against his. I later saw her being attended to by club employees near the exit, and I understand she was eventually taken away. G.G. announced that if you used condoms you were fucked, and drew blood from his forehead with a few smashes from the mike. He proclaimed that he has AIDS and launched into a song called something like “I Have AIDS ‘Cause I Get Laid Everyday.” He seemed more threatening than ever.

At one point, after going to the bathroom, I was making my way back towards the dance floor area when a huge wall of people’s backs surged toward me. For a second I didn’t know what was going on; then I smelled it. The smell of G.G.’s shit made the stink bombs from earlier in the evening smell like a lost lover’s brand of perfume. And it was being thrown at us. I ran; but then again at this point I remember seeing Blag from the Dwarves fleeing in terror. When G.G. ate some of his shit, two hefty bouncers scampered out of the club and vomited on the sidewalk.

I decided to escape to the balcony. It was no refuge from the smell, I realized. And I knew it would not be refuge from G.G. himself for too long. I tried to think like G.G. (admittedly only very superficially possible) and saw the crowd in the balcony as the club’s biggest target. It was clearly desirable to stay the fuck out of G.G.’s way; but there didn’t seem to be anywhere you could do that with certainty. This crowd didn’t want to fight with G.G. Like me, these people wanted to stay the fuck out of his way; I noticed that even people in the balcony flinched or backed up when he charged in their general direction on the floor below. Somebody was throwing handfuls of napkins down onto G.G.; I remember thinking that it was a bad idea to attract attention to the balcony. G.G. writhed around on the dance floor below, naked, in the beer and shit, as napkins rained down on him. I saw the punk who had gotten punched earlier rolling around on the floor too.

G.G. stuffed some napkins up his ass, and berated the audience for having cleared away from him. He lunged at the few people left within mike cable reach, occasionally getting into small fights with them. G.G. howled that the people who went to see the Cows at the Kennel Club that same night were fucked. (Also, I heard later that at the Kennel Club a rumor spread that G.G. had killed himself at the 650 Howard show. He did not.) G.G. pleaded that the women who had performed with The Insaints should suck his dick; he then extended the invitation to anyone. Tonight, however, there were no takers. He complained that his set didn’t include the sex acts that The Insaints’ did, and asked if it was because he isn’t as attractive a Marian and the women who performed with them, or if it was possibly because he’s a man.

Suddenly G.G. picked up a large handful of the thrown napkins; a bad sign, I thought. Then he darted for the balcony stairs. My blood ran cold. Everyone in the balcony ran and pushed in a panic. I felt like a fish who had suddenly been abandoned by his protective school. I thought it strange that people were also running, clearly frightened, out of and away from the upstairs dressing room/”backstage” (near where I was standing, unfortunately). G.G., on a rampage, scurried up the stairs and ran by me, charging at the receding crowd. I started down the stairs, looked over my shoulder, and was horrified to see G.G. coming back toward me. I braced myself, and mercifully G.G. darted past me on his way down the stairs.

The representative from Al’s Sound was a beaten man. G.G. unplugged his mike and stuffed the end of the cable up his ass; he then removed it and put it in his mouth. The P.A. situation deteriorated, and G.G. became furious with the sound man. A club security-type stood in the middle of the floor, nervously smoking a cigarette. Eventually he started gesturing at G.G. that his set was over, and the sound guy cut the P.A. off. G.G., in a snit, jumped up and down and screamed at the audience that “the show is not over!” As G.G. walked through people, up toward the dressing room, they scattered as quickly as they had during his set. I did see one guy who was calm and unimpressed at the spectacle of G.G. streaking around, smeared with shit. “What’s wrong with you people? If you get a little shit on you just wipe it off,” he said.

There were many police cars (and a van) outside of the club as we left. I overheard someone say of the show, “That wasn’t fucking punk.” I saw a young punk in a Ramones shirt who looked like she was going to cry. Employees of the club griped that they were underpaid. Blag was laughingly telling Jesse Blatz that some people wanted their money back. An employee from the Kennel Club was there; I heard that they wouldn’t book this show, and in fact had warned other clubs in town (including this one) not to. One impression of the show I heard was, “Well, it was illegal.” As they were clearing people away from the front of the club I heard the cops say that the club owner had called them asking them to shut down the show. A guy was lobbying the police and club employees to have G.G. arrested for head butting the blonde girl. He told me that he himself had been to jail and that he wouldn’t wish it on almost anyone, except, he insisted, “That motherfucker belongs there!” But many clearly worshipped G.G. I heard a guy say that “G.G. should be bronzed!”; punks walked around reverentially calling out “G.G.!” The police wouldn’t let me stand around near the club, so I walked up the street a ways to watch if anything else might transpire. One by one the police cars drove off, and the show was over.

— Rob
Hoodlum Empire/PO Box 549/Millbrae, CA 94030

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