After swearing off drugs for good in the early 1980s. I had a second go-round with them in the early 1990s. It all began after my record company failed and I formed an electronic industrial-goth band called World of Hurt and moved into an apartment in San Francisco with our keyboard player.
The industrial music scene was huge at that time. Wax Trax! Records was blowing up, and bands like Ministry, Revolting Cocks, and Nine Inch Nails were all on top of the alternative and college radio charts. I was spending five or six nights a week hanging out and networking in bars and underground clubs.
And that is when the drugs began to come in handy–namely, speed and coke.
Our band rehearsed and wrote songs a few nights a week. After several months, we had more than twenty songs. We recorded a bunch of demos and shopped them around, hoping to get a bite from an established record label. Then we went into Hyde Street Studios and started recording some polished songs.
My car was parked two blocks deep into The Tenderloin, which has long been one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. And as I was nearing my car with two heavy bags slung over my shoulders, some scary-looking homeless guy yelled, “Hey! He’s got bags! HE’S GOT TWO BAGS!!”
I had a falling out with our keyboardist, Dan, not so much over musical differences, though there was some of that, but because he was a raging asshole of a roommate. One of the worst. I grew to despise everything about him. Just catching a glimpse of him made me want to punch him in the face.
The arrogant prick was a trust-fund baby who drove a brand new Porsche 944 his parents bought for him. Yeah, he thought he was hot shit, even though he had done nothing to earn a single thing he had. And that wasn’t his worst trait. The guy was always trying to pull scams with credit card companies, his bank, and his family, and he tried pulling a scam or two on me.
The final straw, though, came on the night of the Rodney King riots in 1992. The upheaval in S.F. wasn’t as scary or deadly as the one in L.A, but it was serious. The public was outraged at the injustice, and many were wailing their asses off all over the city. I switched on the TV news, and a camera crew was showing a large crowd of looters breaking into stores on Market Street–and there was Dan, pulling expensive music equipment out of a broken music store window.
When that poor little rich boy got home that night with his Porsche full of stolen goods, I laid into him good. We didn’t talk after that. I found a place of my own and moved out.
Now, coincidentally, almost at the very moment I broke up the band, the music scene in S.F. experienced a dramatic polar shift. Industrial was out, and Acid House was in. It was as if someone just flipped a switch. All of the industrial clubs disappeared overnight, and everyone was going to massive illegal raves in clandestine venues all over the city–high as fuck on Ecstasy.
The early rave scene was incredibly exciting and a tad dangerous. The night would start with a call to a voicemail “buzzline,” where a recording would describe the evening’s event, along with a set of directives: head to this location; meet a stranger to buy a map; head to a second spot; jump in a car or van parked there; get dropped off at the party location (usually a vacant warehouse) … you’d pray that you weren’t being scammed, then, hope that the rave wouldn’t get busted, sending you on a long walk back to your car in the middle of the night.
A few times, map distributors were robbed and even killed for the cash they were holding. There were many drug (Ecstasy) deals gone bad. But the peril and the illicit nature of the whole scene was part of the thrill. Nowadays, if you go to an EDM festival, you’re on a raceway, a giant parking lot, or an actual concert venue with security, but back in the day, you were always going to someplace dark and mysterious. And once you got there, you’d think, I can't believe I'm here!
A few times, map distributors were robbed and even killed for the cash they were holding. There were many drug (Ecstasy) deals gone bad. But the peril and the illicit nature of the whole scene was part of the thrill.
Some nights, there was true decadence and debauchery, nudity, public sex, and a Sodom and Gomorrah feel to it all. You could be a modern-day Caligula or a pimp surrounded by an adoring stable of whores. It was wild. I’ll never forget it: the pounding rhythmic pulse of heavy drums and bass, coupled with the euphoric rush of Ecstasy and its ability to help you transcend to a realm of overwhelming peace and love for your brothers and sisters, was otherworldly.
It didn’t take long before I was getting in tight with some of the promoters and people who organized those early rave events. I put a rig together and started doing video-art projections with Nick, one of the guys from my then-defunct industrial band. It wasn’t lost on me that my dad used to do psychedelic light shows in S.F. back in the late 1960s. I was following in his footsteps, and I knew I had to be careful. I didn’t want to end up like him, on the wrong end of a stiletto.
Nick, my side-kick, talked me into doing a rave of our own. We pulled off two successful events: one in an old church near North Beach and the other in a huge warehouse at Hunter’s Point. It was a lot of work; I put in 10 hours each night running the projections all by myself. Exhausting! Worse, I was sure that Nick had pocketed nearly all of the profits, which soured me on the whole idea. So, we went back to doing light shows for the larger rave production companies.
Then, two very bad situations went down.
A rare opportunity to work for the biggest promoter in S.F. was set up by Nick. We were hired to run our projections center-stage at The Warfield Theater and paid $3,000 each for the one-night event. It was a mind-blowing show, and I wound up meeting not just one but two future girlfriends there. But when it came time to break down our equipment and pack it in at 4 am, Nick was nowhere to be found.
My car was parked two blocks deep into The Tenderloin, which has long been one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. And as I was nearing my car with two heavy bags slung over my shoulders, some scary-looking homeless guy yelled, “Hey! He’s got bags! HE’S GOT TWO BAGS!!”
Four other dead-eyed dudes emerged out of the shadows and started running at me. I turned and hauled ass back to the venue. I don’t know how I managed to outrun them with the heavy bags, but I did. I guess the fear of death had something to do with it. I started to question if the work was worth the risk.
I slept for a few hours inside The Warfield and left mid-morning.
Not too long after that, I was at Nick’s house with a few other people working on composing some House music when he got a page from someone. He called them back. I easily figured out that he was setting up an Ecstasy deal. Nick asked me if I wanted to tag along since everything was going down in Mountain View, not too far from my mom’s place in Palo Alto. “Maybe we can swing by and visit her,” Nick said. “I really dig your mom. She’s cool.”
I thought it sounded like a good idea. We’d pick up a little Ecstasy, hopefully some really good shit, and I’d have a surprise visit with my mom. A win-win.
On the way to Mountain View, Nick stopped and picked up a guy I never met before. He introduced him, “This is Jim, the money guy.”
I had a sinking feeling… and by the time we arrived at an apartment complex off of Rengstorff Ave. and Central Expressway, I was getting kinda pissed. Nick invited me along as backup without asking me. He was putting me in harm’s way, and I didn’t know how much danger I might be in.
Nick was picking up 50,000 Ecstasy pills manufactured by the best chemist in the Bay Area, and Jim, the money guy, was a partner with the biggest rave producer in S.F., and they were stocking up for their massive New Year’s Eve event.
We entered the apartment, and three dudes were standing around the kitchen. They looked nervous to me. After closing the front door, I stood close to it and listened intently to the deal going down.
It turned out that Nick was picking up 50,000 Ecstasy pills manufactured by the best chemist in the Bay Area, and Jim, the money guy, was a partner with the biggest rave producer in S.F.–they were stocking up for their massive New Year’s Eve event. I should have been more concerned for my safety than I was, but I grew up around drug dealers. I felt I could hold my own.
The deal continued to unfold. Nick announced that we would go fetch the cash. Jim didn’t have it on him or in the car. He said it would be a 15-minute drive to pick it up and bring it back. The three dudes would do the same thing: drive over to the chemist’s place and pick up the drugs. They estimated 15 minutes as well.
Inexplicably, the leader of the home team turned to me and asked me if I wanted to stay at the apartment, watch TV, and wait for them to come back. I looked over at the comfortable couch and the TV tuned to the Ren & Stimpy Show and readily accepted the offer. It seemed much safer for me to stay put.
10 minutes went by, and it suddenly hit me: What am I doing here? Seriously.
One group of dudes just left to pick up a shit ton of drugs, and the others went to pick up a shit ton of money, and there I was, sitting alone in the apartment like an idiot, waiting for all of them to come back. Who knows what was about to go down? I only knew one of these people, and I didn’t exactly trust him. Things could turn bad quickly. It could be a set up. There could be a rip-off about to go down. A double-cross. Or maybe a bust. There could be cops prepared to burst in and haul everyone off to prison.
I stood up calmly, walked out the door, and went to visit my mom. During the half-hour walk to her house, I made the decision to quit drugs, again. I moved out of San Francisco and back to my hometown to start work on the next chapter.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I am an avid reader of mob and true crime novels. This is one of the best I have ever read." - Amazon review
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "What a page turner! This story is an amazing piece of investigative work—both compelling and heartbreaking." - Amazon review
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “I’d seen the author’s work in OZY but was blown away by this book. It’s SUCH a great read, written from the heart! Full of interest for those historians of the hippie generation, North Beach, corrupt cops, mobbed up pols, and San Francisco in general. Very well written and paced up to the last pages. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Buy this book now!" - Amazon review
Smart move.