West Point Police Blotter: July 4,1980

Our blog won an award after only 14 postings! OK, it wasn't a very prestigious one, still. I'm going to try to jump start this thing.

(Reprinted for Eating Chicken Vindaloo)As my junior year of high school ended at the end of June in 1980, my parents planned a trip to go down south, leaving me by myself for a couple weeks. Wait, let me back up.

Brother Tony Alva, then 16, “went to Virginia” for the summer with two of his friends, one 16 and the other 18 or 19. When I say “went to Virginia”, I mean the entire plan, down to the last minute detail, was “going to Virginia”. I wasn’t around when he convinced my parents that this was a wise, real-world experience that he should undertake, but I always imagined it went something like this.

Dad: So, what are you doing this summer?
TA: Me and a couple friends were thinking of driving to Virginia.
Mom: Well, they do say it’s for lovers. You’ll be safe.
Dad: We’ll *cough-cough* miss you.

Like I said, I wasn’t there, but I know questions like “What town?”, “What’s the number you can be reached at?”, and “How will you pay for things like food, clothing, shelter, and gas?” couldn’t have been asked. My brother had a part-time job that year cleaning dishes at the Thayer Hotel. And by part-time job, I mean “a means to raise money to smoke more pot”. And smoke pot he did. Impressive amounts. Legendary amounts. I don’t want to incriminate anyone here too badly because my dad put me on notice at the family reunion that he stops by Eating Chicken Vindaloo now and again, but let’s just say it was a lot.

Anywho, my parents signed off on sending his thug-pot-smoking-trouble-making-curfew-breaking ass down to Virginia, and they packed up my sisters and headed south. On the night of July 4th, we had a little gathering at my house, me and about 30 of my closest friends. Oh, and there was beer. Lots of beer. Back in the day, the drinking age was 18, and I was 17 myself, so it was extremely easy to get beer.

In addition to the party at my house, there were two other things happening on the post late in the night of July 4th: the gas station was broken into and many tools were allegedly stolen and a huge 12 foot by 12 foot PA system was stolen at a camper/air streamer gathering.

A couple months after his return from Virginia, apparently none the worse for wear, my brother and I were called into the MP station with my dad to be questioned about those crimes. We were interrogated separately, first him, then me, with our dad. I found it especially comical that my brother was a suspect since HE WASN’T EVEN IN THE STATE THE ENTIRE SUMMER. I don’t really know how his interrogation went – perhaps he’ll comment in great detail or post on this story to fill in the details from his perspective.

I was told about the crimes and that I was a suspect, but the CID guy interrogating me didn’t think it was me, and he wanted to help me prove my innocence, 'cause he really believed in me. See, he was the “Good Cop”. I told him I knew exactly where I was July 4th. I was busted the morning after my parents got back because one of my drunken dickhead friends thought it was hil-freaking-larious to run around the house flicking bottle caps all night - fucking Gorko! Not that I was punished. Man, I swear, my parents must have lost interest in raising us and were just crossing days off the calendar until we left home.

Anywho, I tell Mr. Goodcop I got 20 or 30 witnesses that can tell them where I was the night of July 4th. No, Mr. Goodcop had a better idea. How about ol’ Mathdude submit his fingerprints for the FBI and take a lie-detector test they were bringing up from DC (hey – it was 1980 for chrissakes)? We danced this danced for about 20 minutes – him insisting on me taking a lie detector test and being fingerprinted, me asking him how many witnesses would he need for me to “prove” I wasn’t at either crime scene.

Eventually he had to accept my refusal on both offers – fucking jerkwad. It was one of the wiser decisions I ever made. Brother Tony Alva initially said he would do the lie-detector test, thinking it would be a joke, and then refused when the FBI showed up with a huge freakin’ machine. I hope he’ll give his side of it, because I remember it was a pretty big deal.

So while we may have been on West Point’s Most Wanted List, neither of us made it into the FBI’s files. That we know of.

TA answered in the comments with:
You got most of it right Mathdude.

The back story...The real reason mom and dad let me take my adventure was basically the result of my exalted reputation coming to roost. I had just wrapped up getting into some sort of trouble, the kind that dad’s boss called him into his office about at a time when he was applying for a permanent slot there. He instructed me to “do everything in your power to stay out of trouble these next few weeks”. The next night I got into that fracas you blogged about over the cemetery wall. So, either three things were bound to happen had a hung around that summer: 1. I’d have found trouble of my own doing (get busted getting high or something) 2. Got in trouble on account of the MP’s thinking I ate babies as Jackson understood I did at the time, or 3. Trouble would have forced me to react in a way that would inevitably ended up being my fault even though it wasn’t (someone picking a fight with me because I was a long haired, baby eating, skateboarder).So when I suggested the trip, it was met with open arms.

How naive was I. If it wasn’t for our collective naïveté, my summer would have been quite frightening actually. The first night in VA we met a friend in a park at dusk. Ten minutes later, cops showed up and arrested us for being in a park after dusk (who fucking knew you couldn’t be in a park after dusk). At the station, they couldn’t believe our stories about being on this adventure so they of course, had to call mom and dad. Yep, dad laughs at that to this day (after crying about it for years). “Couldn’t go one day could you…?”.

We camped in the woods behind an elementary school for most of the time. We worked labor pool construction when we wanted to, getting picked up in Tyson’s Corner and riding in the back of the pick up truck to Harbor Place in Baltimore which was under construction at the time. Good money, could work when we felt like it or whenever we got up early enough to catch the ride. Attended the 13th Annual Great American Smoke In demonstration in Washington DC handing out pamphlets for The Coalition for the Abolition of Marijuana Prohibition (CAMP) getting stoned out of my mind. The demonstation was held on the Lincoln Memorial lawn over the July 4th holiday.

Traveled to VA beach to see friends and basically hung out. It was actually pretty chill deal.As the summer wound down, I ran out of money and had to come home of course. By that time I fully understood that my reputation was causing everybody a shit ton of grief and I committed to myself, probably for the first time, that I’d avoid trouble at all costs.

The call about the gas station break-in came a couple of months later and that’s where your story begins. They even offered me a glass of water which I promptly turned down in an attempt to get my finger prints (Nice try Barney Fife I watched Kojack too, dumbass!). Since I’d actually been careful after my return, I was anxious to prove to dad that I had nothing to do with either of those crimes, so I agreed to the lie detector test. What the hell, right? They scheduled it for a couple of weeks later and flew some agents in to administer it. Dad told me I didn’t have to go through with it, that it was my decision. I just wanted him to believe me really.So dad picks me up at school at noon (got out of school, excellent!) and we went down to the station. They put me in a chair and I could see the lie detector machine and it’s just as you describe, pretty scary. Think flux capacitor. The operators were dickheads too.

Dad saw it and wanted to talk to the officers about HIS reservations. What happened next was a turning point in my life: As I sat there looking at the machine, I most definitely changed my mind about going through with it, but I never had to deliver my vacillation to the Fed’s because through the door I heard dad and the officers talking. It quickly became pretty heated and all I heard was dad raising his voice (you know he NEVER raised his voice) and said, “Why should I believe you’re looking out for his best interests? When have any of you EVER looked out for his best interests?! I think you’re taking advantage of this situation and I don’t trust any of you!”, pretty bold considering the rank of some of those in the room with him. He opened the door and reiterated that it was still my choice, but he was recommending that I not go through with it. “Cool, let’s get out of here!” I said. On the way home he told me that he’d always have my back as long as I was clean on things. From that point on I’m pretty sure I flew either straight or kept myself under the radar.

I had nothing to do with either the PX gas station break in or the missing PA system.

Holy Shit!

Look what Tony Alva posted over at Intravenus DeMilo. Blogging gold I tell ya.

Judas Priest

The Metal Mega-Gods Judas Priest have a new album out - Nostradamus. I'm getting killed over at Eating Chicken Vindaloo for thinking it's got some worthwhile tracks. Jackson likes the early studio albums. I find the albums before Hell Bent For Leather to be nearly unlistenable. Am I right? Eh? Of course I am. Unleashed In The East had some of these dogs (The Ripper, Diamonds and Rust), but played at the faster live speed and with some final polish, they came out ok. I listened to Unleashed over the weekend, and while Halford had that 4 octave range back then, I think his voice is stronger today.

Priest peaked with British Steel. Up-Bup. Don't argue, you know I'm right!

Screaming for Vengeance was decent. It has Fever on it which I think is arguably their best song.

I really dug Defenders of the Faith. I put it up there with British Steel. Go ahead and blast me for it. I don't see a bad song on the album.

I concede Nostradamus takes a nose dive after the 5th song on the second disc. There is an excellent 35-40 minutes worth from these 2 discs though. What does that make it then? I say it's pretty good.

FASHION CIRCA 1984

Oh yeah, now that's what I call dressed to the nines.

My uncle just sent this to me, had to share. You just can't keep shit like this to yourself.

Damn.....cool or fool? Can I be both?

This might soil our rep, but...

For me, it's always a blast to be "found" by someone from our shared youth at West Point no matter whether they were inner circle to our gang or not. Technology has lived up to all the hype to become the great reconnector of our age to be sure.

Some of you guys have commented to me at various times, "How do you remember all this shit?" Truth be told, while my recollection of events can be a bit uncanny at times, there are many stories that have been told to me by others from that age that I have no recollection of at all (not just the potentially criminal stuff either).

Having said that, I think you'd be surprised how many times folks who shared the bus, classroom, teen club, etc... with us have recalled to me a story completely contrary to our exalted reputation. Much like Bill's story in an earlier post of me "saving" him from getting pounded by some Garrison thug his sophomore year.

Last week Danny Wattendorf, who lived next door to us after we moved to Wilson Rd., befriended me on Facebook. My sister might have steered him my way. He was a young kid then, much younger than I, but I do remember him and his family being very nice folks, always kind and pleasant to me. Back then, you’d come to notice things like a Colonel in uniform giving you a cheerful “Hey, how’s it going Pat?” after years of adults looking the other way when you pass them on the sidewalk and not returning your “Hello”.

Danny had this for me:

“Subject: Loooong time ago

Pat,

Funny what my childhood memories are: In 1979 My family moved to Lee Rd from Ca. and one of my first memories is some scary skate dudes with crankin' long hair hangin' out at the bridge on Lee Rd. I couldn't quite figure out how you got to grow your hair that long given my parents tight control over me at the time. My buddy, Doug Asiello, had nothing to do so we used to dumpster dive behind the PX. We actually once found a wooden mannequin (but, that is another story). Anyway, we used to hang out at a vending machine room they had on the corner of the PX on breaks from our dumpster diving. One day the skate board dudes came in and I remember discussing with Doug whether we should leave given our latent fear, but one of you came over and a bought us one those Hostess pink snowballs (the ones you can peel the pink marshmallow layer off)...."

Thought you all might find this interesting…

THE THING THAT GOES 'BING', ER......, UH, WENT 'BING'


Why does doing damage to property figure so largely in the development of the American male? Do French kids fuck shit up for shits and giggles? Are the Greek teenage boys defacing their surroundings on hot summer nights?

Running along the Hudson River from West Point's North Dock to South Dock winds a well worn path through the woods named Flirtation Walk by ancient Cadets for obvious reasons. By 1984, however, Cadets and their significant others were thin on the ground at night on Flirtation Walk. The advent of the automobile, and the sensibilities of the sexual revolution had taken their respective tolls on it, and after dark it was largely deserted, which made it an attractive destination for our little gang.

Also by 1984, our little gang had ceased to invite chase from the Military Police; we pretty much just wanted to be left alone to drink, get high, and score with the ladies if at all possible. Sometimes, however, circumstances demand drastic measures, and one night in the spring of 1984, such measures became necessary.

A small group had assembled at the little lighthouse at the western point in the curve of the river that gives West Point it's name. The lighthouse was maybe fifty feet high, at the top of which was a wrought iron catwalk that ran the perimeter, inside of which was the bright green light that flashed for the benefit of passing boats. We'd always climb the little rungs jutting out of the cylindrical base up to the top; climbing things was what we did.

This particular night, however, we weren't interested in the climb. A number of us were under the influence of psychedelic drugs; we just wanted to chill out, listen to the water lapping on the rocks, and otherwise hallucinate and giggle. The problem was, our ability to do so was being seriously hampered by The Thing That Goes Bing.

The Thing That Goes Bing was a small device the size and shape of a beer keg located at the base of the lighthouse facing the river. Every minute or so, it emitted a fairly loud 'bing'. I suppose the sound did the job of the flashing light when the weather went foul. Well, as important of a job as that was, The Thing That Goes Bing was driving us batty. For some unknown reason, leaving for a more peaceful locale never came up as an option.

Suddenly, through the trees appeared two or three figures that turned out to be a few senior members of the notorious baby eating Skateboard Gang, friends of ours as it were.

In due course, we related our dilemma to the new arrivals. We figured that since they weren't tripping, they would come up with a reasonable solution to our problem.

And so they did.

That night, The Thing That Goes Bing became The Thing That Used To Go Bing.

As I recall, it took three or four of us, with our backs to the tower and our feet pressed against the offending device to dislodge it from it's well secured, bolted down presence on the shore, and urge it on its way into the Hudson.

That incident was the most shameful act of irresponsible behaviour that I was a party to. I can't recall who the actual dislodgers of The Thing That Goes Bing were, and I have purposefully kept any names out of this post, but as I was certainly the weakest physically of the assembled miscreants, I'm fairly positive I was simply an onlooker during the task, but I was absolutely encouraging.

Today there is no 'bing' going thing. They never replaced it, and since that time have torn down the lighthouse and in it's place resides a sinister looking metal box about three foot square with a flashing light seriously secured to the rock it sits upon.

Wisely, it makes no sound.

LET THERE BE ROCK

Bill Devine was already a good guitar player when I met him upon my return from Germany in 1980. Pat Wilson and I had been messing around with guitars prior to my departure, and during the year that I was away he had obtained a drum set by way of a cadet who needed a place to keep it. It was a Sonor kit, which was cool because Phil Rudd from AC/DC played Sonor drums. The music thing had developed into a more actual deal while I was away, and when I got back, I did my best to jump right in. I remember learning "My Best Friend's Girlfriend" with Pat from Jamie ‘Hey Hey’ Lagasse in somebody's attic, possibly Pat's. It was only natural that a band formed. Pat Phillips and some of the skate crew had been assembling a band, Head, and we were struck with idea of doing the same.





Bill and Jamie played guitar. Bill had just gotten his Silverburst Les Paul, which is still his main guitar 28 years on, and Jamie had a D'Agostino Les Paul that was a brilliant piece of work. It was wine red, and played just like a Gibson. Pat played the Sonor drum kit previously mentioned. Bob Gosiki was the only bass player in town, so he was in. Bob was the son of a West Point Band member, and he had gear. He had a Gibson Grabber bass, a Kustom bass amp (that quilted sparkly blue plastic upholstered beast). Bob also had an amp he built, which was like twelve watts or something. We used it as the PA for my vocals. I remember two things about that amp: it had an AC/DC sticker on it, and it was so weak that you couldn't hear me above the band. I look back on the latter fact as a fortunate circumstance.

I was bloody horrible. I could neither sing, nor remember the lyrics to the various Deep Purple and AC/DC songs we were doing. The distance I have from those days, and the things I have done since leads me to believe that I simply had no idea what I was doing, but at the same time I knew that cover tunes were not my bag. I didn’t know what my bag was yet, but I was looking for it.

Although I wasn't interested in covers, they were, and are, where it starts. I ended up extemporizing, improvising, and fucking about over top of whatever song was being played. I didn't know it then and neither did anybody else, but what I was doing was writing songs. Bill had a riff that he called 'Center Of The Universe' which was an ode to another local guitar player and son of a West Point Band member, Bubba Dixon. Bubba was a natural musician, he could play, and he knew it. I gave the tune a rebirth under the more direct moniker, 'Bubba Is a Cock'. 'Bubba Is a Cock’ was quickly followed by 'Jill's A Bitch', and 'Donny Go Home' (to the tune of ‘Cocaine’), the subject matter of which, respectively, were the Teen Center manager/supervisor, and my neighbor, the late Donald Tillar.

We played two gigs, I think. I remember one at the Teen Club, where ‘Jill’s a Bitch’ was born, and thanks to Sam Saldivar’s recent YouTube post, I was reminded of a show at the Golf Club House. The lack of sound on the 8mm footage was a blessing for me, but it would have been cool to hear the band. Mostly I got a kick from the milk crate light show, and Billy’s Molson t-shirt.

Songs about people that I didn’t like couldn’t keep me in the line-up of Platinum Dragon for very long. Soon came the fateful night at the West Point Elementary School playground where I was relieved of my front man duties in favor of Sam Saldivar, who had bailed on NYMA, came to O’Neil, and got cool quick. I'm sure I wasn't happy about it, but I think I was relieved. I knew I wasn’t holding up my end. I was still enthusiastic about the band. I liked them, they were my friends. Very shortly after my dismissal, Platinum Dragon was transformed into Nightwolf.




Jamie moved to Colorado. Rob ‘Savage’ Simpson, and his cool-ass siverburst Gibson Flying V replaced him. Bob Gosiki was sacked in favor of Chris Dice. I guess everybody had enough gear by then.

I don’t remember a whole lot about Nightwolf. I remember a show at the Golf Club House. I remember the lyric:

“I don’t really know nuthin’ about ya”

They wrote songs. That was way ahead of the curve. A lot of the creativity must have come from Sam, who was certainly the most creative person we knew.

At any rate, Nightwolf lacked legs. It ended all too soon.

I think, at this point Rob Simpson joined Head. Bret Baugh, guitarist for Head, must have moved on as well. Bret was the most gifted musician in town. He had that ease of play, that effortless vibe that you see in guys like Hendrix or Clapton.

Head, to my poor memory, at that point, consisted of Pat Phillips (vox), Dave Palmer (guitar), Savage (guitar), Hutch (drums). Did Dice play bass at this point?

Head gigs were fairly memorable.

The North Pool gig stands out. My mother, Peg, whose chocolate chip cookies were renown, loaded up the Wilson family Malibu Station Wagon with band gear for the event.

There was something about the sound reverberating off the cement; it worked for War Pigs at least.

Riot Night.

Legend.

Palmer doing ‘FX’ with the Memory Man. A proper show with lights………and a church…..

How does that happen? Who let’s a bunch of teenagers loose in the basement of a church overnight, largely unsupervised, with sound gear, video gear, light gear, other gear…..?

I remember spinning the first Schenker record before the show, and Chris Phillips suggested ‘Victim of Illusion’. The night ended with watching Bruce Lee (Enter the Dragon?) on a big screen as the sun came up.

Then they all graduated, but they weren’t done yet.

Before all that though, we need to revisit our friends Pat Wilson and Billy ‘Guitar’ Devine. After Nightwolf they went underground for a bit, jamming in my basement, and Bill’s. Bill had moved next door to me in a weird magical confluence of circumstance. Pat played bass for a bit, but soon succumbed to the gravitational pull of the guitar.

Around the same time a friendship had developed between our immediate crew and Brian Spears who was succumbing to the gravitational force of the drums.

The base of operations moved to Brian’s basement in Highland Falls, and Talon was born.

I suppose Diceman had been playing with Head, because initially there was no bass.

I don’t think there was bass at the Talon gig when they played at the school rally for financial aid. I do remember the set. Okay, I remember two songs. An instrumental called ‘Backseat Overture’ featuring Pat’s phase pedal, and a cover of ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ featuring Lynn Maloney. Lynn could sing, and she had the Benetar look well in hand. I leant her my silver spandex pants, y’know, as you do. I got them back soiled. Sorry, Lynn, if this public outing upsets you, but posterity must be observed. Lynn decided panty lines could not be tolerated, and so she went commando in my spandex as she menstruated all up inside them shits.

Eventually Chris Dice joined Talon and brought his singular showmanship to the band as well as the sorely needed bass. Chris was great to have in the band. His good nature and work ethic were commendable.

Talon gigged a few times, at the obligatory Golf Club House, the 49er Lodge, and most notably a major show at the Fort Montgomery Elementary School. We pulled out all the stops for that one, which basically means me lighting off flash pots manually behind Brian. There was another female guest appearance. I forget her name. She was okay, she sang Frida’s ‘I Know What’s Going On’ while Pat hid behind his Carvin stack clearly wanting no part of it.

Like most local bands at the time, Talon played mostly cover material, but there were some original compositions. The most memorable was, of course, ‘Take Up the Cross’, which featured a Brian penned lyric about the Children’s Crusade. Everybody was excited about the new tune, and when a chance to record it came up, the opportunity was leapt upon.

Bill Walsh is a legend. He is a musical genius. He was also, at the time, a serious party machine. Bill was a West Point Band member as well as an audio engineer. He had the keys to West Point’s very sophisticated recording studio. Who knew?

Bill took us in, skillfully ushered the band through the process, and produced a nice little demo featuring ‘Take Up the Cross’, a cover of Judas Priest’s ‘You Got Another Thing Coming’, and probably Sweet’s ‘Action’. I’m not sure if the band paid Bill for the session, but I do know Lagasse dropped by.

At the end of that school year, ‘82/83, Talon played an outdoor show at the O’Neill High School Graduation where Bill and Brian received their diplomas. It was off to college for half of Talon, and thus, the end, almost……




The Death of Talon was the title given by Pat of the video of their farewell gig. Bill and Brian came back for winter break, and we decorated the Ace in the Ground – Brian’s basement, and invited a bunch of friends.

Talon went all out in preparation. Costumes, make-up, set design, oh yeah, and everybody took acid about an hour before the show. The latter was regrettable, especially considering the costumes, make-up, and set design. Hey, we didn’t know, really, we had no idea.

The first few songs went well, then a fuse blew and all the power went out as they began ‘Mr. Crowley’. As unsettling as that was, by the time we got things running again, the effects of the LSD had begun to undermine the bands ability to perform. Brian, in his own words, got lost in his cymbals, and Pat seemed to have forgotten how to play. Thankfully somebody gave their guitar to Dave Palmer, and Talon officially died as a loose jam session evolved in the wake. I think the lawn doctor practiced his lurid craft on Brian’s front lawn that night. Pat and I giggled a lot.


Back to Head. I know a few of them went out to LA for a stint, Palmer staying longer and coming back a shred-god. Before long they obtained the residence that gave them their name. The House In Newburg. Pat, Hutch, Palmer, Savage……who played bass? Diceman?

It was a great house. The basement housed the rehearsal space as well as at least one bedroom. There was pinball, booze, and mayhem. That house prepared me for college much more than O’Neill did.

Head wasn’t Head any more, but I don’t think they ever landed on another name, nor do I think they ever played out. They were The Band at the House, and they practiced Metal tunes, many of which were unsuitable for Pat’s bluesy gravel pit voice.

In 1984 Metal cover bands could get paying gigs, and I guess that was the idea. I always thought they should have been writing their own material.

Neither the band nor the house lasted very long as they began to be interested in their lives and soon went their separate ways. It turns out there wasn’t a surplus of dudes who could sing Maiden or Dio.

Savage went to California to be an actor. Palmer went down south into academia. Hutch moved to San Francisco. Pat enrolled at the local Community College. I don’t know what Dice did, or if he was even a part of the scene at that point.

1984 saw the end of the West Point Skateboard Gang bands in the proper sense. Many of us stayed involved with music, however. During breaks from school music was still being made.

The Ace in the Hole gave us Danger Penguin. Ostensibly, at its inception, the Danger Penguin line-up was Brian (drums), Pat Wilson (guitar) and Mitch Turner (guitar). Soon Pat Phillips was showing up as well. The band never gigged, but it served as the spring board into the next era, the studio years.

Pat Wilson obtained a multi-track console and tape machine. We all caught the bug. By 1986 Pat Phillips and Brian had converted Pat’s parent’s basement into the Coal Mine Studio.

We recorded every chance we got. Mitch would come up from Georgia. Whoever was at the University of Maryland at the time would make the trip. We learned a craft.

Eventually the Coal Mine closed its doors, and we all went off to our lives, but those of us who came out of the Coal Mine are all still involved with making music today. Pat Phillips has a studio in Atlanta. I have mine in Brooklyn. Mitch is a Doctor of Tunes at LaGrange College in Georgia. Pat Wilson still plays his white Les Paul, and Brian plays drums with Jesus.

Now, everybody please fill in the blanks and correct my incorrect notions.