Remembering The Den Daddy of LA Punk

Yesterday had such a promising start. My daughter had the day off from school because it was Columbus Day so we went to a movie then hit the thrift stores in search of Halloween costumes. The evening dog walk treated me to a six pack of wild javelinas snorting as they meandered across the road, a sight that thrilled me and scared me at the same time. Just as I was getting ready for bed I decided to check my Facebook.

A message on my wall made me shudder "... Brendan had a stroke and died." I stared at the words thinking it must be an ugly prank. Brendan Mullen was one of the few old friends I have who had never complained to me of the aches and pains of growing old. He was strong, happy, debonair in his stylish hats, he was writing and in the middle of a full, productive life. This couldn't be happening.

In disbelief, I wrote to two other friends on Facebook, careful not to repeat the rumor. "Heard something about Brendan, is he OK?" Within minutes, my fears were confirmed. My eyes went glassy as I watered my pillowcase, remembering a recent argument I'd had with Brendan. We'd made a sloppy peace, each of us feeling we were right, but wanting to move forward and remain friends, we'd agreed to disagree. Like a bandage over an already infected wound, our truce hadn't healed our differences and our friendship had been strained over the past year. It's strange. I thought time would heal us; little did I know we didn’t have very much time left.

I went to sleep thinking of Brendan. When I first met him, he was a young man in his twenties who would blush and babble whenever he spoke to me. Half the time I couldn't understand what he was saying, his accent was so thick in those early days. In 1978, I, along with many members of the L.A. punk community, had made my home at The Canterbury Apartments, just across the blvd from The Masque. At any moment of the day or night my friends and I would invade Brendan's home, wanting to play music, get drunk, or just hang out. Sometimes we'd wake him up and he'd just smile and let us in. He had a little private office, no bigger than a walk-in closet where his bed and a small desk competed for space. It was his sanctuary, the one part of the Masque that was his alone.

One particularly cold night, I along with my friends Shannon and Allison had gone to the Masque to catch a show. All of us had dressed in stupidly scanty outfits, defying the winter weather. I was wearing a 1960's bathing suit which left my midriff exposed except for a narrow strip of fabric that stretched down the middle of my belly. I paired the swimsuit with fishnet stockings, leopard print shoes and bag (that's right, no skirt.) The girls were sporting lingerie as outerwear and we were all shivering. Other clubs got hot once people and bands were inside, but the dingy, concrete walled basement that was the Masque never really warmed up in winter. Seeing us rubbing our arms, Brendan finally came over and ushered us into his office. We sat on his bed and on the single chair he had. We all huddled under jackets and blankets, passing around a flask of rum, laughing at ourselves. I looked around and I could see that Brendan had very few personal belongings, but he put his only coat on me, his single jacket on Shannon and wrapped Allison in the blanket off his bed. When we had warmed up a little he walked us back to The Canterbury, where he dropped us at the gate. We tried to give his things back.

"You can return them tomorrow…" he said, but we quickly peeled off our coverings, dumped them over his arm and started to run inside. He smiled weakly, his arms heavy.

"Thanks Brendan - We love you Brendan!" we shouted as we teetered on our stilletos, racing against the chill night air.

I will always remember Brendan as that shy, blushing young gentleman, the Den Daddy of the L.A. punk scene whose quiet demeanor concealed a passionate promoter of art and music. A man who literally gave me the coat off his back.

Goodbye my friend, you will be missed.

Punk Pictorial

I've just posted some new photos to my website/Flickr gallery pre-punk and punk galleries. While in the process of archiving our collection, we're trying to post high resolution copies of as many photos and documents as possible so that anyone who is interested can access this material through the website. Here are a few samples along with my commentaries:



"Joanie (top - Black Randy's main squeeze), Shannon (left) and I used to play dress up and take photo booth pictures when we were bored. Here Shannon is trying out a new hairdo. It goes well with that maniacal expression, don't you think?"



"Another shot of The Bags walking down Hollywood Blvd. Joe Nanini's doll looks obscene! Those green bubble tights have a crotch panel that makes my thighs look lumpy and I think Janet Koontz is having some serious misgivings about this band right around now. Patricia looks cool and Geza..."



"At the Canterbury. Lise looking new wave, me, happy to cut Terry's throat, Joanie thinking she can do it quicker and Terry Graham in the throes of ecstacy. Note the Fonz poster in the background. Someday, someone's going to make a punk sitcom just like Happy Days. Who will be the punk Fonz?"

Women In L.A. Punk - Part XXV - Connie Clarksville

Some of the women who lived in the Canterbury Apartments in Hollywood back in the late 1970's identified themselves as (or through association, became known as) either Pyranas or Poodles. My roommate Shannon and I both belonged to the Pyranas, a group of young women who tended to be a bit more sexually aggressive and confrontational than the norm. Whatever the Pyranas had in tough, man-eating mystique, the Poodles had in style. The Poodles included Connie Clarksville in their ranks and I believe that Belinda Carlisle of the Go-Go's must have been operating as a double-agent between the Pyranas and Poodles.


The Masque Presents Black Randy and the Metrosquad with Arthur J and the Goldcups at the Whisky. Sheila Edwards, Trudie, Trixie, Connie, Spaz Attack, Alice Bag, Nickey Beat, Exene sitting on KK’s (Screamers) lap. Whisky, March 5, 1978.
Courtesy of Jenny Lens.


I remember Connie Clarksville as one of the first punks to marry the hard-edged punk look with fifties' pin-up glamour. Her rockabilly hairdos and fashion easily set her apart from the crowd. She had a place on the first floor of the Canterbury where, on any given day, she might just as easily be hosting a raucous party as cropping a punk 'do or styling a DA. Compared to the rest of us, Connie seemed to have her shit together. She served food and wine at her parties while the rest of us were sharing half pints of rum and Dr Pepper and a bag of chips. As a fellow Blackette with Black Randy & The Metro Squad, Connie showed us all that she was a multi- talented Glamazon. She danced and sang along with me, Trudie Arguelles, Exene Cervenka, Sheila Edwards and Belinda Carlisle.

Looking at her current pictures, it's hard to say whether she isn't even cooler now than she was in the late 70's. She's still ahead of the curve, still stylish and still looks like she can kick your ass if you don't mind your manners! Click on the thumbnail to read her interview.