Punk Rock nicknames and the continuing saga of Idiots Revenge

What was your Punk nickname? Post yours in the comment section below. 

(Special Thanks to Jill Razer for the nickname research) 

I’m not quite sure where the concept came from that punk rockers needed some sort of nickname. Sometimes people choose their own, but more often than not, they were bestowed upon you. There were the obvious ones like “Spike” of Idiots Revenge because of his spiky hair. Denver’s show promoters had them too: “Headbanger” was an alias Tom used for his fanzine Rocky Mountain Fuse and the name just sort of stuck when people found out. Jill “Razer” said she got hers at a Ramones or Pretenders concert at the Rainbow Music Hall “from this dude and his lesbian friend. They gave me two nicknames: ‘Bertha Earth’ because I lived in Berthoud and ‘Razer Face.’ Fuck if I know why. I thought Bertha Earth was too new wave and Razer Face I didn’t care for, but I liked the Razer part so I adopted it.”  Mike “Brew” basically shortened Brewer.

I was eventually given one in ninth grade, Bob Rob. Mine came about as a necessity for differentiation.  Things tended to get confusing between Rob Wallach and myself.  Two Robs at the same school in the same grade playing in the same band simply could not go on any further. In our circle of friends this all came to a point of contention in the school’s library one afternoon. Rob and I were sitting at a table with an older punker, Mike Lee from Uberfall, and he had come up with a couple of names for me to choose from: Rhino Clit or Bob Rob. I opted for the latter even though the first was a bit edgier. Besides, I didn’t think many people were going to call me Rhino Clit. So Bob Rob it was and the rest of Idiots Revenge thought it would be appropriate to have a song immortalizing my new moniker:

Bob Rob (lyrics: Mark Putt and Ken Neubert)

Bob Rob is a real nice guy

He’ll cut your throat but he won’t cry.

He'll beat you until you're black and blue

But those aren't things he'd like to do.

Bob is bad, Bob is good

He’ll be your friend if you want him to

Bob Rob is a real nice guy

He has no friends we can’t say why.

Bob is big and Bob is bad

And Bob is really awfully mean

Bob is always in control but

Touch him off he will blow

Bob Rob-could care less-of who-you are.

Bob Rob-just wants-his bass-guitar.

With Jimmy off to Alabama, Mark, Spike, and I started to wonder if he was going to come back. It felt sort of strange that someone I talked with on a daily basis for nearly three years was suddenly gone though we were officially on restriction from one another after the kitchen spice-smoking incident. His dad did allow him to make an official call or two from the deep South, that and a couple of letters were our few times communicating. I got most of his updates from his girlfriend Nixon (Michelle) who I talked with on occasion.  Because of her fucked-up home situation, she stayed over at my parents house now and then while things cooled down at her house. This naturally made Jimmy feel a little awkward, though nothing ever happened between Nixon and I, other than lending an ear and safe place to stay for a friend in need. Through all of this my parents were very understanding, because they had in the past temporarily adopted family members who needed some extra help getting back on their feet.

One of the lamest fliers ever made, thanks Brew!

Jimmy returned several months later and decided that Idiots Revenge should move on without him. The band turned into a three piece with Mark and I taking over singing duties. We continued writing new material and landed a couple of shows thanks to Brew who was booking shows at the Grove: an over 18 gothic venue that served 3.2 beer. Colorado was one of the only states where eighteen year-olds could legally buy beer with 3.2% alcohol.  Think of it as a transitional period, baby-steps to the future world of full-service bars. Our first show as a threesome was opening for Ante Bellum and Brother Rat. While Mark and Spike were of age, I wasn’t. There was a strict state policy where I had to obtain a work permit to play such a venue through my school. This meant I had to walk into the school office during summer hours to get the sheet of paper, have an official at school sign it, then ask my parents to do the same all in the name of punk rock. It worked. I showed up to the club, handed over the paper, and with a stamp on my hand, I was good to go. One of the conditions of the permit was that once we finished our set I was to load out and couldn’t come back in. The way around such nonsense was to move the equipment offstage and pack out at a snail’s pace. At least I got to catch most of Brother Rat’s set but missed Ante Bellum entirely. Brew liked us enough to put us on another bill, this time with the disco band, Solid Motion! We never quite figured that one out. I remember him being disappointed with the low turnout. Brew occasionally had a strange habit of matching weird bills including gothic with metal bands with punk bands. That was how we rolled in Denver; no one blinked an eye billing an industrial band like Human Head Transplant and a street punk oi band like Uberfall.  

Made with a "borrowed" pen from school.

Mark and I decided that neither of us wanted to sing fulltime and embarked on finding a fourth member. We tried out a couple of vocalists, including a guy named Tom Vanderbeak from way out in Littleton. It took him about two hours to get to practice on public transportation since he didn’t own a car. He had a shaved head with the tiniest spiked patch of hair that closely resembled a golf tee. He stayed for dinner one evening and my dad asked him if he liked to play golf. One of Tom’s hobbies included dropping acid, which was apparent after having a short conversation with him.  

My brother Tom left this illustration at the house when he was on leave. I felt the need to reappropriate it. 

Prior to our Grove shows in the summer of ‘85, Spike joined another band, Basic Black made-up of Big John who had recently left Uberfall, the newly arrived Toledo Pat who had a brother in Denver and wanted to escape the Midwest summer heat of Ohio, and Jet Black (Bart). This meant that we would have to change practice spaces again to Pat’s brother’s house. We basically toured the property, starting in the dining room, then moving to the basement and finally the shed. Spike would usually endure back-to-back band rehearsals. Big John often stuck around and perhaps out of sympathy to our plight as a struggling band, offered to become our new front man on the condition that we adopt a stylistic change in our brand of music. His idea was that we should expand on our tongue-and-cheek approach, something that would be less of an inside joke in exchange for songs that were lyrically more biting and universally offensive to bum out all elements of the scene. We all felt that punk was taking itself too seriously and bands that mocked serious issues were few and far between. He wanted to pick up where his former band, The Strap-On Dicks from California left off, which included rewriting some of their material to make it ours. Thus our brand of Idiot Rock was born.  To be continued.

"ok, we're going to take one of the Uberfall songs I wrote 'oi Uberfall' play it backwards real slow and pretty. We're going to call it 'Little Girls' and people will like it. 

To hear an Idiots Revenge practice from the summer of 1985, click here.

Special thanks to Ana Medina and Monica Zarazua for editing 

Uberfall, Denver’s premier punk gang.

Giving detectives a crash course on Denver punk rock.

(Part 2 of Idiots Revenge is still under construction. In the meantime enjoy this ditty from the archives. The event occurred on an early afternoon in the summer of 1985.)

Toledo Pat, Spike, and I had just walked out of Wax Trax and were about to drop off our records in Spike’s car then head over to 7-11, when two plain clothes cops showed us their badges. As they escorted us to their car I was thinking how typical it was for them to be harassing punks. We asked them if there was a problem. They said there wasn't, but they wanted to talk with us. 

The three of us sat in the back seat of a squad car. The cop on the driver’s side locked the door so we couldn't leave. We were feeling pretty anxious. We thought they were going to take us somewhere and beat the shit out of us. I've seen a couple of Denver’s finest lay into other punks pretty hard for no reason at all. Their taunting tactics starts with name-calling, you can see it in their eyes how they itch for a reaction or the slightest provocation to make us their punching bags. Their hatred for us was purely based on the way we dressed. The mentality was; if you’re living outside the conventions of what “normal” people wear, then you’re obviously a threat to society. This was one of the symptoms how punk was negatively portrayed in the media. They asked for our ID's. Spike and I handed ours over. Toledo Pat searched for his and said that he left his wallet at home. They ran a check on our licenses while they gave Pat a shit storm for not having his. “Pat, we need social security number, DOB, address...” The officers were irritated. I could see them letting us go and driving off with Pat. Ten minutes had gone by and we were becoming a little more nervous, sweaty palms and all. We saw a few of our friends pass by on the way to the record store. This was good. I was thinking that if for some reason they decided to take us away, we had witnesses. Our thoughts were becoming irrational at this point because nobody was saying anything. The officers in the front were waiting for a call on our ID's. Like a dumb ass, I asked the cops why they had us in the car when a voice came over the radio. Then one in the passenger’s seat hushed me mid sentence.

Hey Dan, will you look at those punk rock faggots. I bet they a part of that nazi Uberfall gang.

"OK boys, you two are fine," he said looking at Spike and I. They went off on Pat again for not carrying any identification. They continued waiting for Pat’s background check to come in and told him “it was the law for all American citizens to carry identification with them at all times.” It sounded like they were going to let us go. We weren't about say anything else. We figured that the more we talked or asked question the longer we would stay in the squad car. We were just happy that the silence broke. The cop on the driver’s side asked Pat what the symbol on the back of his jacket meant. Pat was wearing his roommate, Big John's, jacket. Big John played bass in the band, Uberfall (lit. overthrow). Uberfall's logo UF closely resembled a swastika, perhaps intentionally designed for shock value. The band had stickers, and spray-painted logos all over Capitol Hill. One cop asked us if we belonged to a gang of Nazi's. We laughed out loud. That bummed them out. Pat said that it was his roommate's jacket, and it was a symbol of a band. The cops weren’t buying it. They asked again if we were part of any gang, as if they hadn't heard us the first time. We said "No" in a more solemn tone. “Tell us about the Uberfall gang.” We explained that Uberfall was just a punk rock band. "Why is their symbol everywhere?” It wasn’t our band, we didn’t know, but it was in our best interest to tell them something, anything. While we were spouting off something lame to the effect of, "The guys in Uberfall want to be famous blah, blah, blah…" Flye, Uberfall's vocalist, crosses the street in front of us wearing his leather jacket with a big Uberfall symbol painted on the back of it. Pat, Spike, and I spotted him and tried not to stare or laugh. The cops were to busy being consumed by whatever bullshit we were making up that they were oblivious to the world outside the car. The thought occurred, "If you want to know what the symbol means, ask their singer, Flye, he just walked past.” We just sat there caged, finishing our symposium of why the Uberfall logo was all over Denver.

Early computer graphics

HQ called back. Pat's background check produced a clean record. There was no evidence that any of us belonged to the "Uberfall gang," or any other gang for that matter. They finally handed back our IDs. The cops went off on Pat yet again, telling him that he was lucky they weren't going to haul him down to the station and throw his ass in jail for not having an ID. We sat there politely and took the last of their shit, while collectively thinking, "Fuck these assholes and their ego trips." We had nothing left to say; we hated them for wasting our time with their head games.

They both got out of the car. The cop on the driver’s side hit the latch to open our doors. They thanked us for our time and told us to stay out of trouble. We walked back across the street towards Wax Trax to find Flye. The cop on the passenger side yelled at Pat to remember to carry his ID. We just snickered and stuck our fingers in Pat's face telling him, "Don't forget your ID, boy!" in our quasi redneck “boy, you got a pruddy mouth” accent.

Another Uberfall sticker design. 

We walked into Wax Trax and Flye was at the counter. He asked us what we were doing in the cop car. We told him that the cops were looking for him, "The leader of the Uberfall gang."  "What?!," Flye broke from his usual soft-spoken gentle voice. Flye a gang leader? Violent? Hardly. He was the son of a preacher. Flye thought we were pulling his leg, especially the gang part. We told him the story of what just happened. His face got red; he was sort of embarrassed. He put his hand up to his face and giggled. The clerk finished putting Flye's records in the bag. We told him that the cops were still out there and that he had better take off his leather jacket. We walked out the door and gazed over at the cop car and saw two more punks in the back seat. We didn't cross the street to find out who was in there. We’d have to wait to find out later that night at the show.

Flye and a couple other punks were featured in The Rocky Mountain News newspaper in a pull out section. 

“They got two more. Shit. We’re thirsty.” Spike said we should walk to 7-11 so he could get a Dr. Pepper Big Gulp. While we were sipping our drinks and waiting for our bean and cheese burritos in the microwave, Spike told me how Pat accidentally took a big swig of windshield wiper fluid in his car yesterday thinking it was cheap King Soopers blueberry punch. We all laughed. The buzzer on the microwave went off and we were out the door on the way to band practice.  

Special thanks to Ana Medina and Monica Zarazua for editing