Raising Hell, Raised by Hells Angels
Some are raised by wolves... others by Angels
In 1968, I was 6 years old. My family was holed up in a derelict shack on Stierlin Road in Mountain View, California, out by the city dump. The place was so small that my younger sister and I bunked on the back porch.
Our neighborhood was made up of sprawling family farms interspersed with clusters of World War I-era homes. There was a bar with six stools, a corner store and a handful of weathered Victorian mansions. It’s all gone now. Our little enclave was bulldozed to make a parking lot for Shoreline Amphitheatre, and the rest was swallowed up by the ravenous Googleplex. Amazingly, the impressive palm tree in our front yard is still standing.
An outlaw biker gang, the Northern Rebels, had a clubhouse around the corner from us on Plymouth Street. They laid claim to one of the old Victorians and raised unholy hell in it day and night. The president and founder of the club was Danny Maupin, who had actually lived with us for a time just ahead of his “1 Percenter” days. Outlaw bikers call themselves 1 Percenters, not because of their income brackets but because the American Motorcyclist Association once said that 99 percent of motorcyclists were law-abiding citizens. The remaining 1 percent? Well, you do the math.
My mom had taken Danny in when he was a teenage delinquent in need of a place to crash. The two of them became lifelong friends. Members of his club would race their bikes up and down our street and it wasn’t too hard to get a ride around the block or even take a joyride downtown. I once got a lift to my grandmother’s house. She turned three shades paler when I pulled up on the back of a three-wheeled chopper. After inviting me and my friend Chomp inside for chocolate chip cookies, she sent us on our merry way.
… the Hells Angels stormed the Rebels’ clubhouse, laying waste. They busted out the walls with sledgehammers, shot out the windows, lit beds and couches on fire, then set off dynamite in the fireplace.
A pair of towheaded brothers lived on the farm behind our house. One was my age and the other was a few years older. They began ambushing me on my treks to the clubhouse, pelting me with rocks or sniping at me with pea shooters.
One day, Danny showed me his collection of colors; he had 13 club vests, or cuts, nailed to the wall of his office. Each represented a rival gang that had been vanquished by the Rebels. I figured he could give me some tips on how to deal with my adversaries. Sure enough, he handed me a slingshot and took me out to the yard. Once I was able to take out beer bottles at 10 feet without missing, he sent me on my way with his slingshot and a pocketful of rocks. The next run-in with the towheads was the last.
Later that summer, the Hells Angels stormed the Rebels’ clubhouse, laying waste. They busted out the walls with sledgehammers, shot out the windows, lit beds and couches on fire, then set off dynamite in the fireplace. They gathered the Rebels in the front yard and pulled their patches, officially disbanding the club. As far as I know, none of their bikes were messed with.
Three years later, in 1971, we moved to Palo Alto only to discover that Danny had an apartment just half a block away. He was now a full-patch member of the Hells Angels and was living with a contingent of the Oakland chapter, which occupied every unit in the complex. Several had provided security at the ill-fated Altamont Free Concert, including Danny, who was now known as “Danny Reb” by his brothers in arms. He was rumored to be the Angel who famously knocked out singer Marty Balin during Jefferson Airplane’s set, but I think he just got a few licks in. Most accounts have Paul “Animal” Hibbits delivering the first blow.
My best friend and I would often drop in when we were out riding our bikes. We’d usually find Danny pounding beer and wrenching on his Harley in the middle of his living room or smoking dope and making out with a new girlfriend or two. There was a seemingly endless rotation of eager women, more than enough to go around. Even at the tender age of 9, I was enamored with their reckless and unapologetic hedonism. The camaraderie among the members, their autonomy within society, hell, even the aesthetic was a powerful enticement.
I began dressing like an outlaw biker, making my own cut out of an old Levi’s jacket. Danny offered to convert my Stingray bike into a chopper, and he hacksawed the forks off another bicycle and welded them onto the end of mine, making them impossibly long. When I arrived at school on my badass ride, my classmates didn’t know what to make of it, or of me, and that suited me just fine.
There was another kid my age named Tony who practically lived at the Angels’ compound. He kept pressuring me to drop acid or do speed with him. But in all the time I hung out, I was never once offered a hit off a joint or a sip of a beer by a club member. I’m sure Danny had everything to do with that.
Danny Maupin went on to become the revered and respected president of the Daly City chapter of the Hells Angels. He passed away a little over a year ago after a long illness.
His mother told us that as Danny lay dying in his hospital bed, a new doctor came in to check his vitals. It had been several days since Danny was able to move or to muster the strength to open his eyes. The doctor caught a glimpse of his iconic winged skull tattoo emblazoned with “Hells Angels Forever” and said something derogatory about the club. Danny lurched forward and cold-cocked the guy, knocking him out.
Why?
LLH&R!
Love, Loyalty, Honor and Respect. It’s a 1 percent thing, used by Hells Angels, though not exclusively. And because disrespect begets disrespect. Something else I learned Danny.
igin psallyhed on SEPTEMBER 25, 2019 by the now-defunct OZY Media
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "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
The final destruction of the Northern Rebels' outlaw biker club house made the front page of my hometown paper, The Palo Alto Times, in 1968, with all of the damage being blamed solely on the Rebels. The article happens to mention the battle between the Rebels and Hells Angels that took place a few weeks earlier, which is actually when nearly all of the destruction to the historic house happened. The article says the chimney was "torn from the roof" - but what do they know? It was dynamited. My mom and stepdad were the ones who originally rented the house, then they sublet it to Danny, who sublet it to one of his club members.
Great story Jon. My first girlfriend's mom lived up on Bernal Heights right next to an Angels clubhouse. Back in the mid-eighties, Bernal was still pretty sketchy, and they kept an eye out for the girls. I used to ride my own first motorcycle up there and park it on the sidewalk in from of their place, a little jumpy because my Honda XL350 enduro didn't exactly fit in with the hogs, but they never gave me any trouble, and Natasha and her mom said they were nice guys.