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From Spin, February, 2000. PUNK ROCK ON TRIAL by RJ Smith It was surely the biggest show of Dead Kennedys' career, and Ronald
Reagan made it all possible. In 1983, one of his cabinet members canceled a fourth of July Beach Boys concert on federal grounds in Washington, D.C., fearing the band would bring the wrong element to the
capital. The move looked like crackbrained politics on every level -- the administration appeared painfully out of touch (banning the Beach Boys?), and the official who canned the show didn't even realize
that the band was publicly down with the Reagans. This was political theater of the absurd, and it was therefore a place where Dead Kennedys felt exceedingly at home. The San Francisco
foursome took action, putting together a punk-rock festival on the Mall, the expanse of lawn stretching between the Washington Monument and the Capitol building. They were goading the government to try to stop
them. Instead, thousands of punks filled the grounds that day, and skinny DKs frontman Jello Biafra greeted them by comparing the Monument to a giant hooded Klansman. As he jumped around like an insane
marionette to their ornery punkability, government helicopters hovered over the stage and D.C. cops nervously patrolled the edge of the throng. Even if the band had few great tunes in them, save "California Uber
Alles" and "Holiday in Cambodia," Dead Kennedys were incredible that afternoon. Their theater had finally found a suitably outsize backdrop, and Biafra came off like the kind of guy who'd dare the world to
make the wrong move. Certifiable punk provocateurs, the Kennedys eliminated most everything from rock'n'roll that wasn't about challenging authority, juicing up their rebellion with a tangy
adolescent sarcasm, and making all of it feel like fun, fun, fun. Biafra yammered against hypocrisy, dictators, bankers, frat boys, jocks, and rich rock stars, baaing like a goat through a razor smile.
"Gonna kill kill kill kill kill the poor tonite!" he hissed sardonically. He proclaimed "Nazi Punks Fuck Off" and ordered "MTV -- Get Off the Air." What Jello Biafra didn't like he hated, and he went after
it with rubber gloves and tongs. Over a splashy eight-year career, Dead Kennedys managed to outrage a curious array of parties who probably never bothered to listen to their records.
Congressional subcommittees used their names in vain, newspaper editors refused to print it, and Tipper Gore, the San Francisco police department, the Los Angeles district attorney's office, and even the punk zine
Maximum Rock & Roll wanted their heads on a chinet-plate. In 1987, the DKs were tried on obscenity charges for the penis-laden cover illustration of the Frankenchrist
album (it was declared a mistrial), and Biafra led a colorful national conversation on the definition of pornography. Such controversy helped the Kennedys build a loyal fanbase that included
thousands of small-town and suburban kids. They broke up in '86 but remain one of America's biggest punk legends. (Last year alone, Alternative Tentacles, the independent label the group formed in '79, sold
an impressive 83,000 Dead Kennedys albums.) There have been plenty of testimonials to the band over the years, but a recent one also aspires to be an epitaph: "Dead Kennedys were pioneers in the genre of
punk music, providing an alternative to life-less; cookie-cutter pop and it progeny; the epitome of 'do-it-yourself music,' [their] combination of aggressive, innovative music and insightful social critique
has earned Dead Kennedys a loyal following for over 20 years." Okay, so it's a little stiff. What do you expect from a legal document? The words matter to Biafra, who has requested
they be included in numerous court filings; with many more likely to come. That's because his fellow ex-Kennedys -- guitarist "East Bay Ray" Peperrell, bassist Klaus Flouride (a.k.a. Geoffrey Lyall),
and drummer D.H. Peligro (real name: Darren Henley) -- slapped Biafra with a lawsuit in late '98, charging that he shortchanged them a chunk of royalties. They want $75,000 in back pay, plus damages and
interest, and demand control of the band's catalog and masters. Many fans continue to clamor for a DKs reunion, but the only time all four of them will willingly sit in a room together is at a
trial scheduled for this winter in San Francisco. Sadly, a long fight over a short stack of dead presidents seems likely to redefine the band's legacy. As a headline to a recent piece on the suit in the zine
Punk Planet put it: "Kill Your Idols Before They Make Idiots Out of Themselves." The very name of the case filed in California Superior Court tells a tabloid story:
Dead Kennedys v. Jello Biafra. And though lawyers on both sides have expressed interest in settling out of court, the fight has grown from a simple squabble over money into a labyrinthine battle of
principle. Biafra charges that the affair is a matter of spite, triggered because he nixed a chance for the band to sell out its punk values by putting "Holiday in Cambodia" in a dockers commercial. Now both
sides consider it war. "This is the punk-rock trial of the century," barks Peligro, hitting the table so hard that a styrofoam coffee cup flies into the air. "We're coming out with our guns blazing, and
we're taking no prisoners!" Smiling together in old flyers, Dead Kennedys look like the model of solidarity, but who wears the pants in the band has long been a sore spot. Ray says that
though he assembled the group, Biafra gradually grabbed control, stopped listening to his input, and treated them all like a whipping post. "It turned into an abusive relationship," Ray says. "People in the
band were being put down constantly near the end." He notes the irony of the title of the DK's final record: Bedtime for Democracy. Biafra's personal manager (and former
Alternative Tentacles general manager), Greg Werckman, agrees that his boss can be overbearingly insistent on doing things his way. Even Biafra concedes the point. "Behind every great band there's gonna be
one strong personality," he says. "Otherwise you're just going to be playing Springsteen covers in a bar. If a lot of great bands voted on everything and became nice little democracies, you wouldn't have had
everything from the Velvet Underground to Nirvana!" Since Ray quit in '86, Peligro has formed his own band in L.A., and Ray and Flouride play with Bay Area instrumentalists Jumbo Shrimp.
Flouride also drives a truck for a courier company, while Ray has supported himself with his DK royalties and a salary as the defunct group's de facto business manager. Biafra, now 41, has spent the past decade or so
running Alternative Tentacles, releasing records by everyone from the Crucifuck's to death-row inmate Mumia Abu-Jamal. In 1994, he was savagely beaten outside the 924 Gilman Street club in Berkeley-the cradle of the a
new much less political generation of Bay Area punks-by a bunch of fools who taunted him with catcalls of "rock star." He's seemed somewhat adrift ever since, though he launched a new spoken-word career and has
organized benefits for various causes. He blames his former bandmates' lack of post-Kennedys success for the suit. "I think that 99 percent of (the fight) is a twisted revenge fantasy for the
washed-up bitter old rocker," Biafra says. "I hardly think its my fault that I continue to work and put out new material while those guys did not make the same effort. Both Ray and Klaus had the skills to be good studio
engineers and might well have been where Steve Albini is today if they'd gotten off their butts. Or, Ray could have been a kickass commercial rockbiz manager, or an investment broker, but maybe that was too much work."
"Mr. Politically Correct, that's Jello's schtick," Ray retorts. "What the DKs stand for is treating musicians fairly. If he wasn't the owner of the label he'd be the first one crying. This
is not about greed, this is about fairness and justice." Attorney David Given, who represents Ray, Flouride, and Peligro in the suit, claims that Biafra wrongly uses DK royalties to bankroll his spoken-word activities.
(Biafra denies this assertion.) "Alternative Tentacles was started to promote the Dead Kennedys. At some point Jello Biafra took control of it," says Given. "Now its Biafra Uber Alles." The
argument among the band members has even spilled over to who was the true creative spark for the band. The others like to point out that Biafra can't read music and doesn't play an instrument, the importance of which
Biafra poo-poos. "In the middle of the night I'd hear him roll over in bed," says his ex-wife, Theresa Soder. "He'd go,'Dum, diddle, diddle,' humming this little lick into a recorder. He'd give the tape to the band to
write a tune with it. It's like a two-year-old drawing a picture of a house and handing it to an architect, and the two-year-old gets, like 70 percent of the profit ot something." Biafra did write all of the lyrics,
which were the heart of music's outrageous appeal, himself. Recently Flouride and Biafra spotted each other at a punk show in San Francisco. They made eye contact, but there was no way were
they going to speak. "What do you say to somebody who's trying to wreck your life and destroy something you've worked on for 20 years?" Biafra says while he packs for a stint on the Spitfire spoken-word package tour.
"It disgusts me that I'm being dragged back like a crab in a bucket by people I haven't played a note with in a dozen years. These kind of ridiculous lawyer feasts are something reserved for Deep Purple or The Who."
Not that he's ready to lay down the fight. If "lawyer feasts" are part of the Monsters of Rock, Dead Kennedy's have finally hit the big time. Jello Biafra is
not a dockers kind of guy. And in the Fall of 1997, when an ad agency representing Levi Strauss approached Ray about appropriating "Holiday in Cambodia" for a dockers commercial, it turned a simmering lawsuit into
something far nastier. Ray, who continues to handle business for the band through the communications meltdown, received the fax that floated the notion. Far from an outright offer, it sounded like an initial
feeler leaving plenty of room for Levi's to back out even if the band said yes. (It's hard to envision a song about genocide and forced labor selling slacks, but the proposed storyline involved music, no lyrics.)
Ray communicated the offer to his colleagues, and it's at this point that accounts diverge. Biafra says he was told the offer would have paid more than $200,000; Flouride says that Levi's
hadn't offered any amount yet and adds that even before the band had voted on the idea Biafra was posturing to the press that he'd never permit the use of his song in a yuppie pants commercial, especially when Levi
Strauss had just announced plant closings and layoffs. Biafra claims Flouride suggested that they should take the money and lie that they were giving it to charity. "I never said that," Flouride says.
Whatever the scenario, the Dockers incident handed Biafra powerful ammo. "How could I possibly do something like [the commercial] and stab in the back all the people who've loved our work
all those years?" he says indignantly. "I can't turn around and say, 'Ha ha, I didn't mean a word of it.' That would break a lot of hearts. And I'd be the person out on the street who caught all
the shit while they sat in suburbia and counted dollar bills." Unquestionably, a dockers spot would impact Biafra most of all, as he's the icon, the one widely considered the heart and sould of the band. As
his lawyer Paul Keating says, "If they sell out what's he supposed to do, spoken word in the shower?" Biafra says he told the guys to write and sell a new piece of music instead. "I
said, 'Sell out all you want so long as you don's piss all over our legacy. That would be like spray-painting a swastika on the Mona Lisa and then putting a Levi's logo in the corner."
Flouride denies that the trio ever voted to take the offer, adding that Ray was simply being fair by mentioning potential income. "It's a smoke screen," says Ray, a way to shift the focus from "greedy label
head" to "greedy musicians." "It's designed for the media." Biafra has honed his skills as a charismatic public speaker through his many First Amendment battles, and with the
Frankenchrist controversy he proved he flourishes when cast as the martyr. Thanks to the Levi's soapbox, he's done it again, turning legal proceedings aimed at him into a trial of his accusers. But in this
case the enemy isn't a jelly-bean-chomping arch-conservative: it's his former friends. Being accused of bad business ethics is a blot on a career marked by exemplary principle. To Biafra, the suit
feels like one more attack by people who want to shut him up. If someone in Judge Richard Best's courtroom had bolted from his seat, run to the front, and executed a stage dive from his
honor's bench, they would have left quite a mess on the carpet. For the only folks in the mosh pit to soften their fall this autumn morning in San Francisco would be a bank executive and her corporate attorney, sitting
in the front row as the opening act-the Dead Kennedys lawsuit-takes the stage. East Bay Ray, the only band member in the courtroom for today's discovery hearing, respectfully jumps to attention the moment the judge
appears. Today his lawyer is arguing that Richard Stott, Biafra's longtime buddy and attorney, should be permitted to testify about past business-related conversations between Stott and
Biafra. It's a sticky issue: For a long time, Stott simultaneously served as legal counsel for Biafra, Dead Kennedys, and Alternative Tentacles. It's just another bizarre detail of a
rather Byzantine legal case. The basic issues are these: Ray, Peligro, and Flouride charge Biafra with underpaying them royalties to a tune of $75,000. According to Ray, the band's royalties are tied to the retail price
of their records. He alleges that Biafra and Alternative Tentacles raised the retail price of Dead Kennedys records without telling the band and continued to pay them royalties tied to the former amount. The plaintiffs
also say that when the Dead Kennedys broke up, their label granted the DKs the labels highest royalty rate (which was then 12 percent). For instance, if a Biafra spoken-word picture disc got a better royalty rate, an
improved rate would automatically kick in for Dead Kennedys. But according to Ray, "the band was paid less than all other bands on the label." The plaintiffs are all suing to leave Alternative Tentacles and to take
their masters with them. Meanwhile, Biafra not only disputes the royalties claim, he denies he promised the band the highest label royalties. But he also acknowledges he mistakenly thought he
only raised the wholesale price, though he stresses that even if stores raised their retail prices in response, he was under no obligation to tell the band, let alone share the additional revenue with them. He says it
was used to pay for the label's overhead. (Since the bands business with Alternative Tentacles was mostly cemented with punk-rock handshakes rather than legal documents, it's going to be hard to prove who's right.)
After the plaintiffs demanded a full accounting from Alternative Tentacles in late 1997, Biafra addessed part of their concerns. He put almost $75,000 in a trust - a sum Biafra says he didn't
have to pay and Ray says is not enough. (It will take a judge's order or the plaintiff's agreement to drop their suit to free the money.) Biafra has also countersued for breach of contract and says an accounting of
Ray's books would show that Ray owes him money from T-shirt sales, videos, and other band business. Depositions will probably be sealed until the trial begins, but this morning's
hearing shed light on some uncomfortable conversations allegedly held around the Alternative Tentacles copy machine. Kristen Lange was general manager of the label when Ray wanted to see the books back in
'97. According to her deposition, a few passages of which were read aloud at the hearing, she found out about a discrepancy between what the books indicated the band was paid and what they should have been
paid. When she took the news to Biafra, she remembers him "saying that Ray would go after him if he knew." She says she was told not to break the news to the band. Biafra says Lange misunderstood his
orders. Ray was present during Lange's deposition last August. When he heard how Biafra allegedly instructed her to conceal information, he left the room and cried for half an hour.
By several accounts, after Lange left Alternative Tentacles she showed various spreadsheets to Ray. Lange may have also informed him how much the label was paying other acts, including
Biafra. Biafra's manager, Greg Werckman, who worked at Alternative Tentacles at the time, alleges that "she had documents that she made available to Ray that legally she shouldn't have." Lange's attorney
says his client "would deny that she stole any documents." The case is an example of punk economics: The smaller the piece of the pie being fought over, the more fiercely the combatants
war. After legal fees and lawyers' cuts, the plaintiffs might lose money even if they win. The attorneys involved are scratching their heads at a case more about principles and hurt feelings than the bottom
line. Says John Stewart, one of Biafra's two attorney's on the case, "You've got all the ingredients necessary for people to be in litigation when they shouldn't be." Jello Biafra has
never met a political conspiracy theory he didn't love -- he sees the trilateralists, Time-Warner, and the military industrialists in bed together, and if you don't believe him, he'll show you the microfilm. So
it's kind of funny that this morning's hearing should involve the aforementioned attorney-for-all, Richard Stott, who is something of a punk-rock single-bullet theory. Long before there was an
Alternative Tentacles Records, there was a used-record store in Boulder, Colorado. And long before there was a Jello Biafra, a high school student named Eric Boucher who would hit the store once or twice a
day. Working behind the counter was Stott, as much a punk rocker as Boulder could featured at that time. Stott managed the local band that later became the Nails (give it up for "Eighty-Eight Lines About
Forty-Four Women," y'all), and soon young Boucher was getting his first taste of the rock'n'roll life as their roadie. Boucher went to San Francisco in 1977, haunting Mabuhay Gardens to hear
three-chord wonders like Crime and the Nuns. He answered a "singer-wanted" ad East Bay Ray posted in a local record store and was basically chosen because he arrived on time for audition, unlike the other guy Ray
was considering. Boucher christened himself Jello Biafra, making his name a sick joke on Western consumerism and Third World impoverishment. He kept in touch with Stott, who provided
Biafra with the band name that would quickly make them notorious. As Biafra remembers, "Ray's first reaction was, 'The record companies will never sign us with that name!' He suggested, 'How about something
like the Sharks?' At that point I told everybody else our name was Dead Kennedys, so then they couldn't get rid of it. I just had a hunch that name would raise some eyebrows."
Stott moved to San Francisco and went to law school. Dead Kennedys were his first professional clients, and with them came the label they founded. From 1984 on, he has also been Biafra's personal
lawyer. (Stott even drafted papers for Biafra's wife
in their divorce proceedings.) Many would find this overlapping the roles rife with the potential for conflict of interest: bands want as much as they can get, as soon as possible, while labels tend to pay talent as little as possible as late as they can. How can a lawyer advise both side? Ray and Co.'s present lawyer, David Given, whom they hired last year, says Stott purported to protect their interests while he was really doing Biafra's bidding. Stott denies the charges and says he frequently told the band they should consult another lawyer if they were uncomfortable with his input. He also says he never worked with them on money matters and claims that until outside lawyers got involved "everybody was happy."
"There wasn't all this tension then," Biafra adds. "Everybody understood what was good for Dead Kennedys was good for Alternative Tentacles, and vice versa." When he looks at past
history now, does he see any impropriety? "No, because I never wanted to act against the other three guys. I'm not interested in chiseling people. I'm not Ray." For his part, Ray laments that he
was "naive and trusting." As the judge stands to signal the end of the hearing, East Bay Ray again rises. He's wearing a green jacket, purple pants, and bug-eyed glasses. Sitting
there in court was hard on him; more than once he looked like he was going to burst when Biafra's lawyers addressed the judge. But now, leaning against his car, drawing a few deep breaths of fresh San
Francisco air, he's able to relax a little. The lawsuit is clearly consuming him. Win or lose, he's going to feel an awful void in his life when it's all over. When asked if there's any chance that he
and Biafra will settle out of court, he responds, "If he'll do the right thing, so will we." He chuckles. "Maybe." It's an October evening in San
Francisco, and Alternative Tentacles is sponsoring a benefit for the East Timor Action Network. Four local bands have volunteered for the show at a brick-walled club, with the proceeds going to a brave group that
monitors human rights in the tiny nation that just declared its independence from Indonesia after decades of bloody repression. It should be a frenzy. Instead, someone says words you never want to hear at a
concert: "Awwright, we're gonna have some kickass music -- right after we see some slides." When the stubbly singer from High on Fire takes the mic, his intentions are nothing but the best as he mumbles, "I
want to, thank everybody for coming out to help East Indonesia." "It's East Timor! Indonesia's the problem!" an audience member hoots. This would not have happened if the Dead Kennedys
had been on the stage. Not only does Jello Biafra know where East Timor is, he could have improvised a searing lecture on the nation's history and explained how U.S. corporations have stoked the bloodshed that the media
had ignored for years. He could have riveted our attention without a slideshow. With the band playing deftly behind him, the room would have erupted, and American foreign policy would have become as physically manifest
as a bruise. Instead, as the late, lamented Dead Kennedys duke it out in the crab pail, their lawyers get the last word. Strangely enough, these days, the legal talent seem more sure about
punk-rock ethics. "Everything's verbal, just handshakes. You keep the lawyers out of things," the plaintiff's attorney Given explains. "What we're really talking about is control of the band's destiny. That's what the
DIY ethics is about, man. Control your masters, and don't let other people whore you." Next to Given's desk rests a bumper sticker so sarcastic it could be a Dead Kennedys song title:
PROUDLY SERVING MY CORPORATE MASTERS. Biafra's lawyers define punk a little differently. "Those ideals were about not selling out," says Keating. "Noncommercialization, nonsupport of
people who are only interested in something for the money they can get out of instead of the freedom to create whatever you want." As he talks, it hard not to notice the way his legs neatly
cross at the ankles and the nice shoes he wears. They are tassled leather loafers. Let the trial begin: Drive a Mont Blanc pen through the heart of punk. |
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