The Black Jerks and Saboteur at the fist-fight shack - By N.L. Belardes
Oh, I could have gone to the Thunderrun. I could have seen cool bikes, hot biker babes, scary biker babes, scary biker dudes, killer hogs, wanna-be bikers, screaming biker maniacs, and a lot of local bands along with a well-known imported headliner, Lit. I could have hung out at the Bakersfield fairgrounds with a lot of band chums who I have met over the past few months and surely would have had a great time. But then, not one person in the music scene called me over the weekend to attend. I still love all those guys. But if no one calls me, then that means I am on my own to go lurk wherever I want to in the local music subculture. Without obligations I am as free as little tweety bird straight out of grandma Ethel’s birdcage. I can go watch Smoky the Homeless Hobo twang his banjo on Ray Street, chum it up with mariachis at Amigos, or better yet, head to East Bakersfield to dive into the sub-subterranean culture of thrash punk rock mayhem in a little shack with a whole lot of history: the Munoz Gym. There, boxers still tangle and spar, bags get slugged, and punk rockers sometimes swelter in a historic gym of forgotten ghosts who stare swollen-eyed from the gym’s nostalgic walls.
One of the motivating factors for me actually showing up at the gym was the rumor of this being the final show for The Black Jerks. I don’t know if that will hold true; bands always look for unique marketing promotions to get kids to come to shows. Why, just the night before, The Black Jerks jammed in a late night session with the Hips out on a veteran’s property called ‘The Camp’ and a lot of people showed up. That was billed as the promotion of the 7” vinyl release for The Hips. Talk about a step into yesteryear and today. Here are The Hips releasing vinyl when most bands don’t have a clue what vinyl is anymore. I bought one just so I could have some really cool memorabilia of The Hips… Anyway, The Black Jerks were there and I heard it was quite a show. I spoke with Black Jerks guitarist, Matt Riot about their performance at The Camp. “Some kid kept thrashing me. He practically kicked me down and I accidentally smashed him in the teeth with my guitar,” he said. “It was a great show.” Now that’s punk rock.
Trying to find the Munoz Gym you can almost pass right by as you head toward Edison highway. It’s a distant area of town, near La Colonia restaurant, close to the strange etherworld of agriculture and city, where vineyards meet the urban sprawl. The gym itself is the size of a tiny one-bedroom house on a gravel lot near another old building from the 1940s where eggs used to be housed and sold. Inside the gym, the walls are covered with pictures, news clippings and posters from throughout Bakersfield boxing history. The ring in the center of the room is surrounded by a narrow walkway while a few benches have a weathered look. The more than thirty-year-old gym has been run by Paul Munoz, the grandfather of Ronald of Underground Records/also drummer for The Black Jerks.
In the 1940s Paul Munoz fought against an Olympic champion. That was around 1948, just three years after the end of World War Two. I don’t remember if he said he won or lost that particular fight, but that’s not what was most important. Most important was the fact here was a Central Valley kid duking it out in amateur rings and making a name for himself in a bygone era. “I almost fought for a title in Hawaii. They wanted me to go, but it just didn’t happen,” he said.
The elder Munoz sat on a crate with a stick. He pushed around a few rocks near a rusted barbed wire fence. I asked him how many amateur fights he’d fought through the years. “Oh I stopped boxing in the 70s. That was after around 210 fights. My brother figures I won around 200 of those. I never went pro. But a lot of people think I did.”
Paul’s eyes are kind, but still have the fight and prowess he had years ago in bouts at the old Strongbow Stadium (I don’t remember its really old name). Paul’s arms and hands still show the strength of a man who has calmly punched bags and other boxers for nearly two-thirds of a century. He grappled the stick like he was going to wrap tape on his hands and pointed to the gym. “I had the dream of creating champions right here in Bakersfield.” What happened was a rather heartless display of the boxing profession of the 70s and 80s: fights getting called draws; fighters were cheated and could only win if they knocked out their opponents; boxers stolen from under Paul’s nose; big title chances pulled like rugs; and Paul left to create boxers on a shoestring budget. “Those were the days the Los Angeles Olympic Stadium made up for the closures in New York,” he smiled. “That was just after the time when you could tour the whole country as a boxer.” Paul indicated the Olympic Stadium was a network of boxing promoters who seemed to all have stars in their eyes only for themselves and not for a Bakersfield promoter who had a simple dream to just create great boxers out of imports from south of the border. That was Paul’s dream, though it rarely saw such glory moments. “I had one really good boxer who had so many draws people were amazed. What could I say? He was a champion to me.”
I asked Paul if he had any regrets. “No. I’m not perfect, but I don’t have regrets. Now I like working with kids. I’d like to think they learn something from not being on the streets.” There is a discipline in fighting I learned from my discussion with Paul Munoz that lasts a lifetime. It’s not just the eye of the tiger, but the eye to tackle life and life’s hardships that you can learn from such a disciplined sport. I wondered if such a discipline could be found in the chaotic heart of punk music.
I first met Joe from The Hips down on 19th Street outside of Gigantic Vintage. He’d given me two CDs of his band’s music: an EP and a live CD that included a couple of unreleased tracks. We started a dialogue off then that ranged from talking about downtown punk magazines to a small controversy over possibly using some of their music in The War Days movie and soundtrack. Joe stepped out of a car and I quickly said hello… not long afterwards he and Shaggy from The Hips had on strange gas mask-like garb for a brief set intro to The Black Jerks. They reminded me of some kind of creepy post-apocalyptic mind control psycho-police with their mockery of the human race through punkdom. In an artistic display of the saboteurs in every one of us, they were indeed Saboteur, a side project of Joe and Shaggy who soon hope to create a demo. Joe, in his strange blue garb and cop-like terror scream stood on his amp in punk defiance of tomorrow’s societal order, while Shaggy began drumming as if borne of the spirit of punk in the stale air of the Munoz gym. She shot out drumbeats; he gave lyrical orders, rhythm from the chaos that rained from Joe’s screaming and wailing punk vocals and guitar sounds. This was Paul Munoz fist in the spirituous riot of punk chaos, calmly played, extricated from two lone instruments with the discipline that can only found in the soul of music.
Friday the 13th in May had been a horrible trip for The Black Jerks. They went down to LA for a house show that got shut down and Matt Riot’s guitar was stolen. Last night their lead man declared this to be his last show. “I’ve got other things to work on,” he said to me. What was this? The Black Jerks breaking up? Or still a gimmick? I don’t know. Did the singer have a disgusted look on his face? No—couldn’t be. I asked him if he was leaving Bakersfield. “No. I’m staying around here. I got some things going on. But this is the last night of The Black Jerks for me.”
What can I say? It was a chaotic night in some ways. Matthew Riot had to go find a guitar. Who knows where he borrowed it. It was out of tune during one song. He grimaced and tuned it. I wasn’t sure if the rest of his band was happy or sad that the crowd was subdued. The crowd wasn’t thrashing the band as I have seen crowds do and the band do to the crowds. The Black Jerks always mingle right in, thrash about and come out with a whirlwind 30-60 second song. That’s the energy of The Black Jerks.
Their set wasn’t a disaster at all but a celebration of sound, of punk music in an old gym known for its hits and taking hits through the years, all for the ongoing discipline of an art that a lot of people just don’t understand…
One of the motivating factors for me actually showing up at the gym was the rumor of this being the final show for The Black Jerks. I don’t know if that will hold true; bands always look for unique marketing promotions to get kids to come to shows. Why, just the night before, The Black Jerks jammed in a late night session with the Hips out on a veteran’s property called ‘The Camp’ and a lot of people showed up. That was billed as the promotion of the 7” vinyl release for The Hips. Talk about a step into yesteryear and today. Here are The Hips releasing vinyl when most bands don’t have a clue what vinyl is anymore. I bought one just so I could have some really cool memorabilia of The Hips… Anyway, The Black Jerks were there and I heard it was quite a show. I spoke with Black Jerks guitarist, Matt Riot about their performance at The Camp. “Some kid kept thrashing me. He practically kicked me down and I accidentally smashed him in the teeth with my guitar,” he said. “It was a great show.” Now that’s punk rock.
Trying to find the Munoz Gym you can almost pass right by as you head toward Edison highway. It’s a distant area of town, near La Colonia restaurant, close to the strange etherworld of agriculture and city, where vineyards meet the urban sprawl. The gym itself is the size of a tiny one-bedroom house on a gravel lot near another old building from the 1940s where eggs used to be housed and sold. Inside the gym, the walls are covered with pictures, news clippings and posters from throughout Bakersfield boxing history. The ring in the center of the room is surrounded by a narrow walkway while a few benches have a weathered look. The more than thirty-year-old gym has been run by Paul Munoz, the grandfather of Ronald of Underground Records/also drummer for The Black Jerks.
In the 1940s Paul Munoz fought against an Olympic champion. That was around 1948, just three years after the end of World War Two. I don’t remember if he said he won or lost that particular fight, but that’s not what was most important. Most important was the fact here was a Central Valley kid duking it out in amateur rings and making a name for himself in a bygone era. “I almost fought for a title in Hawaii. They wanted me to go, but it just didn’t happen,” he said.
The elder Munoz sat on a crate with a stick. He pushed around a few rocks near a rusted barbed wire fence. I asked him how many amateur fights he’d fought through the years. “Oh I stopped boxing in the 70s. That was after around 210 fights. My brother figures I won around 200 of those. I never went pro. But a lot of people think I did.”
Paul’s eyes are kind, but still have the fight and prowess he had years ago in bouts at the old Strongbow Stadium (I don’t remember its really old name). Paul’s arms and hands still show the strength of a man who has calmly punched bags and other boxers for nearly two-thirds of a century. He grappled the stick like he was going to wrap tape on his hands and pointed to the gym. “I had the dream of creating champions right here in Bakersfield.” What happened was a rather heartless display of the boxing profession of the 70s and 80s: fights getting called draws; fighters were cheated and could only win if they knocked out their opponents; boxers stolen from under Paul’s nose; big title chances pulled like rugs; and Paul left to create boxers on a shoestring budget. “Those were the days the Los Angeles Olympic Stadium made up for the closures in New York,” he smiled. “That was just after the time when you could tour the whole country as a boxer.” Paul indicated the Olympic Stadium was a network of boxing promoters who seemed to all have stars in their eyes only for themselves and not for a Bakersfield promoter who had a simple dream to just create great boxers out of imports from south of the border. That was Paul’s dream, though it rarely saw such glory moments. “I had one really good boxer who had so many draws people were amazed. What could I say? He was a champion to me.”
I asked Paul if he had any regrets. “No. I’m not perfect, but I don’t have regrets. Now I like working with kids. I’d like to think they learn something from not being on the streets.” There is a discipline in fighting I learned from my discussion with Paul Munoz that lasts a lifetime. It’s not just the eye of the tiger, but the eye to tackle life and life’s hardships that you can learn from such a disciplined sport. I wondered if such a discipline could be found in the chaotic heart of punk music.
I first met Joe from The Hips down on 19th Street outside of Gigantic Vintage. He’d given me two CDs of his band’s music: an EP and a live CD that included a couple of unreleased tracks. We started a dialogue off then that ranged from talking about downtown punk magazines to a small controversy over possibly using some of their music in The War Days movie and soundtrack. Joe stepped out of a car and I quickly said hello… not long afterwards he and Shaggy from The Hips had on strange gas mask-like garb for a brief set intro to The Black Jerks. They reminded me of some kind of creepy post-apocalyptic mind control psycho-police with their mockery of the human race through punkdom. In an artistic display of the saboteurs in every one of us, they were indeed Saboteur, a side project of Joe and Shaggy who soon hope to create a demo. Joe, in his strange blue garb and cop-like terror scream stood on his amp in punk defiance of tomorrow’s societal order, while Shaggy began drumming as if borne of the spirit of punk in the stale air of the Munoz gym. She shot out drumbeats; he gave lyrical orders, rhythm from the chaos that rained from Joe’s screaming and wailing punk vocals and guitar sounds. This was Paul Munoz fist in the spirituous riot of punk chaos, calmly played, extricated from two lone instruments with the discipline that can only found in the soul of music.
Friday the 13th in May had been a horrible trip for The Black Jerks. They went down to LA for a house show that got shut down and Matt Riot’s guitar was stolen. Last night their lead man declared this to be his last show. “I’ve got other things to work on,” he said to me. What was this? The Black Jerks breaking up? Or still a gimmick? I don’t know. Did the singer have a disgusted look on his face? No—couldn’t be. I asked him if he was leaving Bakersfield. “No. I’m staying around here. I got some things going on. But this is the last night of The Black Jerks for me.”
What can I say? It was a chaotic night in some ways. Matthew Riot had to go find a guitar. Who knows where he borrowed it. It was out of tune during one song. He grimaced and tuned it. I wasn’t sure if the rest of his band was happy or sad that the crowd was subdued. The crowd wasn’t thrashing the band as I have seen crowds do and the band do to the crowds. The Black Jerks always mingle right in, thrash about and come out with a whirlwind 30-60 second song. That’s the energy of The Black Jerks.
Their set wasn’t a disaster at all but a celebration of sound, of punk music in an old gym known for its hits and taking hits through the years, all for the ongoing discipline of an art that a lot of people just don’t understand…
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Monday, June 20, 2005.
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Hi,
Where is this gym located? Please let me know, I want to go there.
East Brundage Lane, Bakersfield, CA....
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