April 3, 2024 • 28 mins
Carolyn Stein grew up with music like Avril Lavigne and The Marianas Trench – classic, trashy pop punk. But she never considered herself much of a punk rocker, until she took a little trip to the East Bay to a tiny venue called 924 Gilman Street. But soon after Carolyn discovers this venue, she learns that it may be at risk of closing. What will be lost if this venue closes?
Welcome to Paradise was produced by Carolyn Stein, Ana De Almeida Amaral, and Max Du, with support from Laura Joyce Davis and the Stanford Storytelling Project.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
This is State of the Human, the podcastof the Stanford Storytelling Project.
Each episode, we take a common humanexperience, like teaching or breathing or
joking, and bring you stories that deepenour understanding of that experience.
My name is Ana de Almeida Amaral.
Today's episode is one in a seriesabout reclaiming what's been lost.
(00:22):
This series will feature storiesabout reclaiming neighborhoods,
music venues, childhood obsessions,languages, and ways of seeing ourselves.
It's about holding on to the tensionbetween what we were and what we are.
and who we've become.
It's about returning to our origins, butthis time with a more nuanced perspective.
(00:45):
Welcome to State the Human.
I live in a pretty magical place.
On Thursday nights, I join a groupof 20 students as we bring our
instruments out into the garden of ourhouse to make music under the stars.
(01:11):
This guy decides to head to New York City.
This guy would.
For hours, all we
do is sing songs.
Sometimes really badly, as we laugh andenjoy a moment of creating together.
I
(01:45):
just moved into Columbay a few weeks ago.
It's a dorm on campus that is a consensusbased cooperative house, meaning we
cook together, we clean together, andwe make all of our decisions together.
I know what you're thinking, and yes,it's just as hippie as it sounds.
Only vegetarian food is made here.
(02:05):
And when you walk through thehouse, murals cover every hallway.
Also, the top floor of our househas a clothing optional policy.
It may just sound like a weird housefull of California college kids, but
the culture of community and subversiveways of being in this house has been
passed down for the past 50 years.
(02:26):
And it has made Columbay theheart of student activism
on campus for generations.
From the anti apartheid movementto present day free Palestine
organizing, Columbay residentshave a legacy of collective action
and organizing for social justice.
(02:46):
Columbay is truly a magical place,like its own world away from the
individualistic and drowning culture thatdominates the rest of Stanford's campus.
I love coming home to Columbay and I couldnot imagine living without this place.
(03:10):
In today's episode, we're talking aboutanother place that has been a home to
generations of people who subvert thedominant narrative by screaming and
moshing to music with their voices.
That's not for everyone.
Punk got its start in the 1970s witha bunch of teenagers who wanted to
(03:34):
resist and change the dominant culture.
Punk Paradise came to West Berkeleyin 1984 through a small music
venue called 924 Gilman Street.
But like many utopias, thisone quickly became distorted.
And after 40 years, the venuefinds itself at risk of closing.
Today's episode is about how the venuehas reclaimed its origins and how
(03:58):
punk rockers protect their paradise.
This is Welcome toParadise by Caroline Stein.
It was March of 2020, right beforeeveryone was sent into quarantine.
(04:18):
I kept telling myself, I'll seeeveryone again in two weeks,
I'll see everyone again in twoweeks, repeating it like a prayer.
I needed some kind of escape, somethingto make me feel like I had control again.
That weekend, my friend Carlosinvited me to a show at a club called
924 Gilman Street, or the Gilman,as the Berkeley locals call it.
(04:43):
As I watched the sun set over thebay bridge from the car window, I
felt like I could breathe again.
Carlos and I met throughthe Stanford Marching Band.
Carlos had been telling meabout the Gilman forever.
When he talked about his firsttime there, it was like hearing
(05:03):
a kid talk about Disneyland.
So we're driving up to the venue andone of my friends is in the front
seat and he turns back to me as we'regoing across the front of the venue
and he goes like, isn't this great?
Doesn't it look like s And I'm like, yeah!
They did these things prettyregularly called Ska Nights.
It's Friday or Saturday nights whereit's mostly just all ska bands.
(05:26):
And we get in one of the opening bands.
They got up on stage and they're like,yeah, we're really not a good band.
We're like the worst bands ever.
And everyone just kindof went wild for it.
There was such like a wonderful chaosabout it that there was just, it made
me want to be there just all the time.
(05:47):
We pulled up to a brickbuilding with windows plastered
and graffiti and stickers.
I wanted to love this place asmuch as Carlos did, but all I
could think was, this is it?
It was a cold night and I was shiveringas we walked from our parking spot.
Carlos handed me some earplugs.
You're gonna need these, he said.
(06:07):
When we came up to the venue,the doors were wide open.
A teenage girl with fiery redhair and cartilage piercings
greeted us at the door.
She couldn't have been olderthan 16, but already she looked
cooler than I'll ever be.
Carlos handed her four dollars, andin exchange, we each got a small
(06:29):
membership card with a drawing of ourhorse drawn carriage on one side, and
the rules for membership on the other.
As we stepped inside and my eyes adjustedto the dim lighting, the first thing I
noticed were the graffiti and stickersthat covered every inch of the walls.
Beat up leather coucheslined the edge of the room.
(06:50):
It's just as cold inside as outside.
Despite being a fan of early2000s trash punk rock music, I
was unprepared for what came next.
As the band started playing,the place came alive.
People started flinging their bodiesacross the room, thrashing into each
(07:12):
other like it was a game of pinball.
Even with earplugs in, Icould feel the music pulsing
through every part of my body.
I backed up towards the edge of the room.
But before I could get there,Carlos grabbed my hand and
pulled me into the mosh
pit.
(07:35):
Being in the mosh pit is amazing.
Felt like being underwater.
I was gasping for breath, scared thatI'd sink to the bottom and get trampled.
It was terrifying.
But then something inside metold me to stop resisting.
I relaxed my body.
(07:57):
I surrendered myself to thecurrent of the people pressing in.
Suddenly, I was no longer sinking.
But swimming.
All of the weight and worry Icarried into that place melted away.
And then, just as suddenly,I came up for air.
(08:18):
All of those bodies dancing andjostling around me held me up.
It was floating.
I found my footing, stepped outof the mosh pit, and emerged
with a new vision for this place.
I saw things I hadn't noticed before.
(08:40):
High schoolers in flannels crashinginto middle aged men and rainbow haired
millennials, poetry on the walls,and the words, sweet children, spray
painted across one of the ceiling beams.
An homage to Green Day, one of the manybands who got their start at the Gilman.
(09:01):
As I stared at those words,only one thought filled my mind.
I think.
I found paradise.
From that moment, I wanted toknow everything about this place.
(09:24):
Where it came from, why it felt sospecial, and how it even became paradise.
The first thing I discovered was that thishole in the wall club was the birthplace
of some of punk rock's most famous bands,including not only Green Day, but also The
Offspring, Jawbreaker, and Yeasty Girls.
(09:47):
As I dug deeper, I discoveredthat the Gilman has always
been more than just a club.
It's been a whole microculture.
Even a lab for makingart and finding freedom.
The club was founded in 1986.
When a guy named Tim Yohannan, thefounder of Maximum Rock and Roll
(10:09):
Zine, transformed a repurposed Berkleewarehouse into Punk Rock's Bay Area home.
By then, there was already a punkmusic scene growing in the East Bay.
Punk music was loud, political,and anti authoritarian in nature.
All words you could use to describethe Bay Area from the 1960s on.
(10:32):
So it was only natural that Thatresidents of Berkeley, Oakland,
and San Francisco would be intomusic that captured that spirit.
But there wasn't yet a centerfor that punk music to be played.
The Gilman was born out of that need.
It became a space where rebels of allbackgrounds skated down the streets
(10:52):
of West Berkeley to gather for anight of freedom and pure chaos.
As Gilman grew to be a mecca forthe punk music scene, New types
of sound came out of that venue.
Sounds that would becomeunique to the East Bay.
Like Operation Ivy, a band of teenagerswho mixed hardcore punk with ska
(11:12):
music.
Operation Ivy was short lived.
But the band evolved into Rancid, one ofthe most famous bands in punk history.
(11:35):
It was in 1989, between the OperationIvy and Rancid years, when legendary
punk musician Jesse Townley,otherwise known as Jesse Lucius,
arrived on the scene from Philly.
He's one of those old school volunteers.
who's seen the good, the bad,and the ugly of punk rock.
(11:56):
But you would never guess thatif you saw him on the street.
When he arrived in Berkeley, he waslooking to join an art magazine.
But instead I ended up gettinginvolved with Gilman Street and not
leaving for a couple of decades.
Spanned off and toured with Green Day.
And as the lead singer ofBlatz, he would sometimes strip
(12:18):
during Gilman performances.
It was really familiar to me.
It was covered with graffiti and peoplewith funny hair and funny ideas and ripped
up clothes were hanging out and goodbands were playing that weren't just kind
of overproduced 80s commercial garbage.
The Gilman didn't just provide a spaceto mess around and play live music.
(12:41):
It became an important space forprotests and political expression.
People were looking for a space to kickand scream, not just for the hell of it,
but to express outrage about ongoing U.
S.
wars or lack of police accountability.
But sometimes, that resistance took theform of fighting punk rock's darker side.
(13:02):
Jesse says that as a collective, theGilman's sought to be a safe space for
people of all backgrounds since day one.
We, we had, we had major problems.
Um, we had Locals who would come andhang out across the street, and we
would move them on, and they wouldcome back, and they would threaten
to go get the gun in their truck.
Especially during those early years.
(13:22):
Back then, it wasn't uncommon forNazi skinheads to show up to punk
shows, trying to stir up trouble.
If you were lucky, the worst thingthey would do was a Hail Hitler salute
instead of clapping for the performers.
30 of them showed up one nightwhen Jesse was helping run
an anti racist action show.
But this time they showed up toa show with 300 people who were
(13:43):
specifically there to fight racism.
And so they got chased downthe street and beaten up.
That was a wonderful thing.
The Gillman brought awareness to theracism and fascism that had found
its way into the punk rock scene.
They played a big role in bridging thegap between groups that were wildly
different but shared a passion for musicthat embraced being cultural misfits.
(14:03):
This is the root of what wefind at the Gilman today.
So there's a little lessantagonism and there's a lot less
violence overall in the scene.
There's a lot more awarenessin all parts of the scene.
When you enter the venue today, Oneof the first things you see among all
of the graffiti is a large sign thatsays no violence, no racism, no sexism,
(14:26):
no homophobia, and no transphobia.
The message at the top of theirdiscord channel sums it up well.
No f
ing behavior.
Gilman and activismdefinitely go hand in hand.
A majority of our staff is queer.
Largely trans, like all of that.
This is Charlie Illa, a longtime memberand manager of 9 2 4 Gilman Street.
(14:48):
Charlie has been involved in alot of activism at the Gilman.
He's led political workshops tohelp people navigate elections
and decode ballot measures.
This is something that Carlos saidis one of the things he loves.
Punk in general has always beena place for people that have
been historically marginalized.
There's a history of social justice andequality and social and racial unity.
(15:12):
And so you take one step into the placeand that just becomes instantly clear.
The Gilman's existenceis a form of activism.
In and of itself,
it was at the Gilman that Carlos firstheard day labor, a ska band, where
he saw people who looked like him.
The friends that I'd first come tothe Gilman with, they'd been trying
to sell me on day labor for a while.
And the thing about day labor is that,oh, they have a lot of Latino members,
(15:35):
so they use Spanish in their lyrics.
They, they, they write their lyrics aboutEnglish and Spanish, so like as soon as.
Performing.
They just brought the house down.
It seemed like people werethere just to see day labor.
It was, it was amazing.
I was, I mean, I was already hookedon their music, but there was, there
was no turning back after that.
They were one of my favoritefans, like from that night on.
And they still are.
And so being able to have a form of musicfrom my punk subcultures that I can share
(15:59):
with my parents and have them be able to,to vibe with that and relate to it in.
In the same ways that I do, it'sthis moment where so many parts of my
world just come together, all at once.
Activism at the Gilman today doesn'tjust look like political workshops
or binging up skinheads, it'sabout prioritizing local artists.
(16:19):
The more I understand what theGilman has done to bring together
marginalized communities, Themore I began to understand why
Carlos loved this place so much.
But like so many small music venues,the Gilman is struggling to survive.
In the face of rampant gentrification,the Gilman could go the way of other
(16:42):
legendary music venues like 285B.
Kent in Brooklyn, Slim'sin San Francisco, and Mr.
T's Bowl in Los Angeles.
Generally speaking, gentrification iswhen developers go to a lower income
area and build the area up by bringingin different restaurants and attractions
that tend to be more expensive.
This process often causes rents toincrease significantly, which means
(17:05):
that many long time residents andbusinesses have often get displaced.
Charlie said he's seen thesechanges from the beginning.
The first time Carlos took meto the Gilman, I did notice the
Whole Foods and Tesla repair shop,but I also noticed the homeless
encampments just a few blocks away.
It was the same image I'd seenin San Francisco, the same image
(17:26):
that has dominated Bay Areaheadlines for the past few years.
As the rich move in to transform theneighborhoods, Low income residents
get priced out and are forced toleave or even lose their homes.
And when patrons of the Gillman get pricedout, the culture gets priced out too.
People that have grown up here andbeen here for years, they're getting
(17:48):
priced out and they have to move awayfrom the place that they call home.
And it's not as easy.
In a word, it's And some of theold neighborhoods that I grew up
seeing are basically unrecognizable.
Even now, I'm still having ahard time getting used to, and
it's one of the things that Idislike most about the Bay Area.
It's always going to be home.
I don't want to leave anytime soon,but at the same time, it feels
(18:09):
like so much of the positive changethat it's brought to the world has
come at the cost of its own soul.
Gentrification is also not only athreat to the Gilman's existence, but
creates challenges for the membersto stick to their core values.
It's been hard to not, like, compromiseour own values as a collective to make
more money, you know, and ultimately westill want to be a space that's for the
(18:29):
community, kind of above everything else.
But the Gilman has limited options.
Charlie says Gilman has never had ashow that's more than 20, and even
if someone doesn't have the money toget in, they can still be let in as
long as they help clean up afterwards.
When Carlos took me there in 2020, Ihad to buy a membership card to get in,
(18:50):
but the cost of membership was only 2.
That little card also gave meaccess to the membership meetings
that happen on the first and thirdSaturdays of every month at 5 p.
m.
Forever and always.
From a business standpoint, the lowprices undoubtedly hurt the Gilman.
Raising the prices would keep thephysical space alive, but it would
(19:12):
also mean the death of what has madeit so special from the beginning.
As I listened to Carlos andCharlie's concerns, I began
to think about what a Bay Areawithout the Gilman would look like.
Charlie and others have done so much workto preserve it, but if it disappeared,
how many people would even notice?
(19:32):
I began to wonder how Gilmanhas survived for so long and
how they are staying afloat.
I expected to hear stories about tellinggentrifiers to piss off and spray
paint the outside of the Whole Foods.
Something looks But that'snot Gilman's strategy.
At first, their approach soundedmore Kenny G than Green Day.
(19:53):
According to members of the Gilmancommunity, this is not a story of
street protests and demonstrations,but rather a story of city politics
and getting involved directlywith the Berkeley City Council.
We survived because we became aknown entity to the city of Berkeley.
We taught ourselves how to be apolitical entity and a cultural entity.
(20:17):
This became particularly importantin the late 90s, when the
Gilman got a new neighbor, anelectronics company called Dicon.
And they complained to the economicdevelopment part of the city of Berkeley
that our people were scaring theirlate shift so we had to be closed down.
And we were like, oh no, no,no, that's not gonna happen.
(20:50):
When the Gilman members heard aboutthe possibility of their venue being
closed down, They banded together.
Initially, Daikon refused to talk tothe Gilman members, but eventually,
the company showed up to the citycouncil to talk to the Gilman
community about their concerns.
After talking things through, Jesse andother Gilman volunteers shifted their
(21:11):
hours and came up with an agreementthat made everyone feel comfortable.
While showing up to city council meetingswas always an option for the Gilman, some
members decided to take it a step further.
For Jesse, that looked likejoining the Berkeley Rent Board.
From 2008 to 2018, Jesse spent his timeon the Rent Board advocating on behalf of
(21:33):
tenants in venues like 924 Gilman Street.
Okay, so one of the reasons I was able torun for office is because I can stay awake
when incredibly boring things happen.
Come up like land, use
the road to get to therent board wasn't easy.
Many people in the punk communityviewed Jesse's efforts to run
for office as a form of betrayal.
(21:54):
I had friends who would kind ofput up their nose at me and sneer
like, you're running for office,you're gonna become the man.
And I'd be like, well, better methan the people who are there now.
And so, and that's theage old question, right?
Do you become part of the machine ordo you, uh, fight outside the machine?
Against the machine?
As more upscale restaurants and boutiquestried to move into spaces around the
(22:17):
Gilman, Jesse's work on the Rent Boardgave him more opportunities to preserve
the area surrounding 924 Gilman.
And I was like, look, if youput a high end restaurant across
8th Street from Gilman, theirpatrons will not like our patrons.
All 220 of them or whateverwho are outside between bands.
(22:37):
Smoking cigarettes and beingloud and having funny hair.
Like, I don't care howBerkeley they think they are.
They're not going to like that.
And that's going to get us shut down.
Jesse and other Gilman leaders wentto the city council to advocate
against the proposed Yuppie Street.
Since the city council already knewJesse as a member on the rent board, that
gave him some leverage in his advocacy.
(22:59):
As a result, the developersended up dropping their project,
which was a huge win for Gilman.
If you told me in 1989that we'd be able to.
I
asked Jesse if the threatof gentrification ever faded
to the background for him.
His answer?
Never.
The
(23:25):
Gilman has anchored itself in thetide of gentrification, continuously
working to endure the next wave.
I'm amazed by how the Gilman communityhas navigated gentrification so far.
But I do find myselfwondering how they'll survive.
One night, as I'm reminiscing about themosh pit and the feeling of crashing
(23:46):
into sweaty people, I search upimages of 924 Gilman Street on Google.
I find a picture from an oldshow and notice a sign spray
painted in big white letters.
It says, Nothing is more punk thanbeing self determined and respecting
the self determination of others.
And that's when it hits me.
(24:07):
I need to go back.
So Carlos and I take anothertrip across the Bay Bridge.
Some things have changed.
They no longer give out membership cards.
Now they just have a touchscreenwith a credit card reader.
But otherwise, the place is the same.
Punk rockers with tattoo sleevesand ripped up denim vests crash
(24:28):
into each other in the mosh pit.
And their kids follow.
One guy catches my attention.
A 40 something year old photographerwearing a pair of New Balance shoes
that my dad also probably owns.
I strike up a conversation with theguy, he's a self described techie
by day, music photographer by night.
He's taking photos of peoplesitting on the couches at Gilman.
(24:51):
He says that the Gilmanis everything to him.
So I ask him the same question I'd askCarlos and Jesse and Charlie and myself.
What makes Gilman so special?
And why does it matterif it lives or dies?
He turns to me and thenpoints around the room.
Look at the people sittingon the couches, he says.
(25:11):
They're the ones who makethis place so special.
When I think back to my first timeat 924 Gilman Street, perhaps the
thing that I left the mosh pitwith was a sense of community.
And that sense of community is reallywhat made me fall in love with this place.
Everything from the beat up couchesto the chaotic spray painted
(25:32):
pictures, and even the music itself.
Standing at the edge of the room,watching as people jumped and danced
and crashed into each other inthe mosh pit, I'm taken back to my
own experience, in the same spot.
I felt free in a way that was new to me.
It took coming back to the Gilmanto realize what it was I'd felt
that night in the mosh pit.
(25:54):
As I felt myself falling,only to feel people around me.
It's that sense of community, thefeeling that there are people all
around me who understand why evenas strangers, we need each other.
Why we need this space.
But it's not a guaranteethat the Gilman will survive.
(26:15):
What is clear, is thatwhat this place stands for.
I like to think that spaces likeGilman are important and that people
know that spaces like Gilman areimportant and will help us stay open.
And this sounds kind of cheesy, butGilman has always kind of been a
more about the spirit and soul of thecollective rather than an actual function.
(26:38):
So even if we have to close ourdoors, the people involved, the work
that we do, the passion that peoplehave for music will still exist.
It just probably will have to findanother avenue, another place to cause
a ruckus and make noise and make a mess.
The Gilman is a space wherepeople can bring their grievances
and joy and frustrations, andthey're all welcomed here.
(27:01):
I found the Gilman at a timewhen I needed to escape.
a life that felt out of control.
When the whole world neededa place to scream over
everything that was going wrong.
So a place to express how thingsare not okay in a way that was
chaotic, raw, and unfiltered.
You could express any motion that cameup without having to explain it further.
(27:21):
It's still a place whereI can find that today.
I recognize that this type of place withchipped paint and beat up couches isn't
for everyone, but for me, it's paradise.
That was Welcome to
(27:47):
Paradise by Caroline Stein.
You've been listening to Stateof the Human, the podcast of the
Stanford Storytelling Project.
This episode was produced by CarolynStein and me, Ana Delmeda Amaral,
with support from Laura Joyce Davis,Dawn Frazier, Megan Kalfas, Melissa
Deardahl, and Jonah Willengans.
(28:09):
For their generous financial support,we'd like to thank the Vice Provost for
Undergraduate Education, the Programin Writing and Rhetoric, the Office of
the Vice President of the RIT, You canlearn about the Stanford Storytelling
Project and our podcasts, workshops,live events, and courses at storytelling.
stanford.
edu.
(28:35):
You can find this and every episodeof State of the Human on our website
or anywhere you listen to podcasts.
For State of the Human andthe Stanford Storytelling
Project, I'm Ana Delmeda Moral.
Thank you for listening.
This is State of the Human, the podcastof the Stanford Storytelling Project.
Each episode, we take a common humanexperience, like teaching or breathing or
joking, and bring you stories that deepenour understanding of that experience.
My name is Ana de Almeida Amaral.
Today's episode is one in a seriesabout reclaiming what's been lost.
(00:22):
This series will feature storiesabout reclaiming neighborhoods,
music venues, childhood obsessions,languages, and ways of seeing ourselves.
It's about holding on to the tensionbetween what we were and what we are.
and who we've become.
It's about returning to our origins, butthis time with a more nuanced perspective.
(00:45):
Welcome to State the Human.
I live in a pretty magical place.
On Thursday nights, I join a groupof 20 students as we bring our
instruments out into the garden of ourhouse to make music under the stars.
(01:11):
This guy decides to head to New York City.
This guy would.
For hours, all we
do is sing songs.
Sometimes really badly, as we laugh andenjoy a moment of creating together.
I
(01:45):
just moved into Columbay a few weeks ago.
It's a dorm on campus that is a consensusbased cooperative house, meaning we
cook together, we clean together, andwe make all of our decisions together.
I know what you're thinking, and yes,it's just as hippie as it sounds.
Only vegetarian food is made here.
(02:05):
And when you walk through thehouse, murals cover every hallway.
Also, the top floor of our househas a clothing optional policy.
It may just sound like a weird housefull of California college kids, but
the culture of community and subversiveways of being in this house has been
passed down for the past 50 years.
(02:26):
And it has made Columbay theheart of student activism
on campus for generations.
From the anti apartheid movementto present day free Palestine
organizing, Columbay residentshave a legacy of collective action
and organizing for social justice.
(02:46):
Columbay is truly a magical place,like its own world away from the
individualistic and drowning culture thatdominates the rest of Stanford's campus.
I love coming home to Columbay and I couldnot imagine living without this place.
(03:10):
In today's episode, we're talking aboutanother place that has been a home to
generations of people who subvert thedominant narrative by screaming and
moshing to music with their voices.
That's not for everyone.
Punk got its start in the 1970s witha bunch of teenagers who wanted to
(03:34):
resist and change the dominant culture.
Punk Paradise came to West Berkeleyin 1984 through a small music
venue called 924 Gilman Street.
But like many utopias, thisone quickly became distorted.
And after 40 years, the venuefinds itself at risk of closing.
Today's episode is about how the venuehas reclaimed its origins and how
(03:58):
punk rockers protect their paradise.
This is Welcome toParadise by Caroline Stein.
It was March of 2020, right beforeeveryone was sent into quarantine.
(04:18):
I kept telling myself, I'll seeeveryone again in two weeks,
I'll see everyone again in twoweeks, repeating it like a prayer.
I needed some kind of escape, somethingto make me feel like I had control again.
That weekend, my friend Carlosinvited me to a show at a club called
924 Gilman Street, or the Gilman,as the Berkeley locals call it.
(04:43):
As I watched the sun set over thebay bridge from the car window, I
felt like I could breathe again.
Carlos and I met throughthe Stanford Marching Band.
Carlos had been telling meabout the Gilman forever.
When he talked about his firsttime there, it was like hearing
(05:03):
a kid talk about Disneyland.
So we're driving up to the venue andone of my friends is in the front
seat and he turns back to me as we'regoing across the front of the venue
and he goes like, isn't this great?
Doesn't it look like s And I'm like, yeah!
They did these things prettyregularly called Ska Nights.
It's Friday or Saturday nights whereit's mostly just all ska bands.
(05:26):
And we get in one of the opening bands.
They got up on stage and they're like,yeah, we're really not a good band.
We're like the worst bands ever.
And everyone just kindof went wild for it.
There was such like a wonderful chaosabout it that there was just, it made
me want to be there just all the time.
(05:47):
We pulled up to a brickbuilding with windows plastered
and graffiti and stickers.
I wanted to love this place asmuch as Carlos did, but all I
could think was, this is it?
It was a cold night and I was shiveringas we walked from our parking spot.
Carlos handed me some earplugs.
You're gonna need these, he said.
(06:07):
When we came up to the venue,the doors were wide open.
A teenage girl with fiery redhair and cartilage piercings
greeted us at the door.
She couldn't have been olderthan 16, but already she looked
cooler than I'll ever be.
Carlos handed her four dollars, andin exchange, we each got a small
(06:29):
membership card with a drawing of ourhorse drawn carriage on one side, and
the rules for membership on the other.
As we stepped inside and my eyes adjustedto the dim lighting, the first thing I
noticed were the graffiti and stickersthat covered every inch of the walls.
Beat up leather coucheslined the edge of the room.
(06:50):
It's just as cold inside as outside.
Despite being a fan of early2000s trash punk rock music, I
was unprepared for what came next.
As the band started playing,the place came alive.
People started flinging their bodiesacross the room, thrashing into each
(07:12):
other like it was a game of pinball.
Even with earplugs in, Icould feel the music pulsing
through every part of my body.
I backed up towards the edge of the room.
But before I could get there,Carlos grabbed my hand and
pulled me into the mosh
pit.
(07:35):
Being in the mosh pit is amazing.
Felt like being underwater.
I was gasping for breath, scared thatI'd sink to the bottom and get trampled.
It was terrifying.
But then something inside metold me to stop resisting.
I relaxed my body.
(07:57):
I surrendered myself to thecurrent of the people pressing in.
Suddenly, I was no longer sinking.
But swimming.
All of the weight and worry Icarried into that place melted away.
And then, just as suddenly,I came up for air.
(08:18):
All of those bodies dancing andjostling around me held me up.
It was floating.
I found my footing, stepped outof the mosh pit, and emerged
with a new vision for this place.
I saw things I hadn't noticed before.
(08:40):
High schoolers in flannels crashinginto middle aged men and rainbow haired
millennials, poetry on the walls,and the words, sweet children, spray
painted across one of the ceiling beams.
An homage to Green Day, one of the manybands who got their start at the Gilman.
(09:01):
As I stared at those words,only one thought filled my mind.
I think.
I found paradise.
From that moment, I wanted toknow everything about this place.
(09:24):
Where it came from, why it felt sospecial, and how it even became paradise.
The first thing I discovered was that thishole in the wall club was the birthplace
of some of punk rock's most famous bands,including not only Green Day, but also The
Offspring, Jawbreaker, and Yeasty Girls.
(09:47):
As I dug deeper, I discoveredthat the Gilman has always
been more than just a club.
It's been a whole microculture.
Even a lab for makingart and finding freedom.
The club was founded in 1986.
When a guy named Tim Yohannan, thefounder of Maximum Rock and Roll
(10:09):
Zine, transformed a repurposed Berkleewarehouse into Punk Rock's Bay Area home.
By then, there was already a punkmusic scene growing in the East Bay.
Punk music was loud, political,and anti authoritarian in nature.
All words you could use to describethe Bay Area from the 1960s on.
(10:32):
So it was only natural that Thatresidents of Berkeley, Oakland,
and San Francisco would be intomusic that captured that spirit.
But there wasn't yet a centerfor that punk music to be played.
The Gilman was born out of that need.
It became a space where rebels of allbackgrounds skated down the streets
(10:52):
of West Berkeley to gather for anight of freedom and pure chaos.
As Gilman grew to be a mecca forthe punk music scene, New types
of sound came out of that venue.
Sounds that would becomeunique to the East Bay.
Like Operation Ivy, a band of teenagerswho mixed hardcore punk with ska
(11:12):
music.
Operation Ivy was short lived.
But the band evolved into Rancid, one ofthe most famous bands in punk history.
(11:35):
It was in 1989, between the OperationIvy and Rancid years, when legendary
punk musician Jesse Townley,otherwise known as Jesse Lucius,
arrived on the scene from Philly.
He's one of those old school volunteers.
who's seen the good, the bad,and the ugly of punk rock.
(11:56):
But you would never guess thatif you saw him on the street.
When he arrived in Berkeley, he waslooking to join an art magazine.
But instead I ended up gettinginvolved with Gilman Street and not
leaving for a couple of decades.
Spanned off and toured with Green Day.
And as the lead singer ofBlatz, he would sometimes strip
(12:18):
during Gilman performances.
It was really familiar to me.
It was covered with graffiti and peoplewith funny hair and funny ideas and ripped
up clothes were hanging out and goodbands were playing that weren't just kind
of overproduced 80s commercial garbage.
The Gilman didn't just provide a spaceto mess around and play live music.
(12:41):
It became an important space forprotests and political expression.
People were looking for a space to kickand scream, not just for the hell of it,
but to express outrage about ongoing U.
S.
wars or lack of police accountability.
But sometimes, that resistance took theform of fighting punk rock's darker side.
(13:02):
Jesse says that as a collective, theGilman's sought to be a safe space for
people of all backgrounds since day one.
We, we had, we had major problems.
Um, we had Locals who would come andhang out across the street, and we
would move them on, and they wouldcome back, and they would threaten
to go get the gun in their truck.
Especially during those early years.
(13:22):
Back then, it wasn't uncommon forNazi skinheads to show up to punk
shows, trying to stir up trouble.
If you were lucky, the worst thingthey would do was a Hail Hitler salute
instead of clapping for the performers.
30 of them showed up one nightwhen Jesse was helping run
an anti racist action show.
But this time they showed up toa show with 300 people who were
(13:43):
specifically there to fight racism.
And so they got chased downthe street and beaten up.
That was a wonderful thing.
The Gillman brought awareness to theracism and fascism that had found
its way into the punk rock scene.
They played a big role in bridging thegap between groups that were wildly
different but shared a passion for musicthat embraced being cultural misfits.
(14:03):
This is the root of what wefind at the Gilman today.
So there's a little lessantagonism and there's a lot less
violence overall in the scene.
There's a lot more awarenessin all parts of the scene.
When you enter the venue today, Oneof the first things you see among all
of the graffiti is a large sign thatsays no violence, no racism, no sexism,
(14:26):
no homophobia, and no transphobia.
The message at the top of theirdiscord channel sums it up well.
No f
ing behavior.
Gilman and activismdefinitely go hand in hand.
A majority of our staff is queer.
Largely trans, like all of that.
This is Charlie Illa, a longtime memberand manager of 9 2 4 Gilman Street.
(14:48):
Charlie has been involved in alot of activism at the Gilman.
He's led political workshops tohelp people navigate elections
and decode ballot measures.
This is something that Carlos saidis one of the things he loves.
Punk in general has always beena place for people that have
been historically marginalized.
There's a history of social justice andequality and social and racial unity.
(15:12):
And so you take one step into the placeand that just becomes instantly clear.
The Gilman's existenceis a form of activism.
In and of itself,
it was at the Gilman that Carlos firstheard day labor, a ska band, where
he saw people who looked like him.
The friends that I'd first come tothe Gilman with, they'd been trying
to sell me on day labor for a while.
And the thing about day labor is that,oh, they have a lot of Latino members,
(15:35):
so they use Spanish in their lyrics.
They, they, they write their lyrics aboutEnglish and Spanish, so like as soon as.
Performing.
They just brought the house down.
It seemed like people werethere just to see day labor.
It was, it was amazing.
I was, I mean, I was already hookedon their music, but there was, there
was no turning back after that.
They were one of my favoritefans, like from that night on.
And they still are.
And so being able to have a form of musicfrom my punk subcultures that I can share
(15:59):
with my parents and have them be able to,to vibe with that and relate to it in.
In the same ways that I do, it'sthis moment where so many parts of my
world just come together, all at once.
Activism at the Gilman today doesn'tjust look like political workshops
or binging up skinheads, it'sabout prioritizing local artists.
(16:19):
The more I understand what theGilman has done to bring together
marginalized communities, Themore I began to understand why
Carlos loved this place so much.
But like so many small music venues,the Gilman is struggling to survive.
In the face of rampant gentrification,the Gilman could go the way of other
(16:42):
legendary music venues like 285B.
Kent in Brooklyn, Slim'sin San Francisco, and Mr.
T's Bowl in Los Angeles.
Generally speaking, gentrification iswhen developers go to a lower income
area and build the area up by bringingin different restaurants and attractions
that tend to be more expensive.
This process often causes rents toincrease significantly, which means
(17:05):
that many long time residents andbusinesses have often get displaced.
Charlie said he's seen thesechanges from the beginning.
The first time Carlos took meto the Gilman, I did notice the
Whole Foods and Tesla repair shop,but I also noticed the homeless
encampments just a few blocks away.
It was the same image I'd seenin San Francisco, the same image
(17:26):
that has dominated Bay Areaheadlines for the past few years.
As the rich move in to transform theneighborhoods, Low income residents
get priced out and are forced toleave or even lose their homes.
And when patrons of the Gillman get pricedout, the culture gets priced out too.
People that have grown up here andbeen here for years, they're getting
(17:48):
priced out and they have to move awayfrom the place that they call home.
And it's not as easy.
In a word, it's And some of theold neighborhoods that I grew up
seeing are basically unrecognizable.
Even now, I'm still having ahard time getting used to, and
it's one of the things that Idislike most about the Bay Area.
It's always going to be home.
I don't want to leave anytime soon,but at the same time, it feels
(18:09):
like so much of the positive changethat it's brought to the world has
come at the cost of its own soul.
Gentrification is also not only athreat to the Gilman's existence, but
creates challenges for the membersto stick to their core values.
It's been hard to not, like, compromiseour own values as a collective to make
more money, you know, and ultimately westill want to be a space that's for the
(18:29):
community, kind of above everything else.
But the Gilman has limited options.
Charlie says Gilman has never had ashow that's more than 20, and even
if someone doesn't have the money toget in, they can still be let in as
long as they help clean up afterwards.
When Carlos took me there in 2020, Ihad to buy a membership card to get in,
(18:50):
but the cost of membership was only 2.
That little card also gave meaccess to the membership meetings
that happen on the first and thirdSaturdays of every month at 5 p.
m.
Forever and always.
From a business standpoint, the lowprices undoubtedly hurt the Gilman.
Raising the prices would keep thephysical space alive, but it would
(19:12):
also mean the death of what has madeit so special from the beginning.
As I listened to Carlos andCharlie's concerns, I began
to think about what a Bay Areawithout the Gilman would look like.
Charlie and others have done so much workto preserve it, but if it disappeared,
how many people would even notice?
(19:32):
I began to wonder how Gilmanhas survived for so long and
how they are staying afloat.
I expected to hear stories about tellinggentrifiers to piss off and spray
paint the outside of the Whole Foods.
Something looks But that'snot Gilman's strategy.
At first, their approach soundedmore Kenny G than Green Day.
(19:53):
According to members of the Gilmancommunity, this is not a story of
street protests and demonstrations,but rather a story of city politics
and getting involved directlywith the Berkeley City Council.
We survived because we became aknown entity to the city of Berkeley.
We taught ourselves how to be apolitical entity and a cultural entity.
(20:17):
This became particularly importantin the late 90s, when the
Gilman got a new neighbor, anelectronics company called Dicon.
And they complained to the economicdevelopment part of the city of Berkeley
that our people were scaring theirlate shift so we had to be closed down.
And we were like, oh no, no,no, that's not gonna happen.
(20:50):
When the Gilman members heard aboutthe possibility of their venue being
closed down, They banded together.
Initially, Daikon refused to talk tothe Gilman members, but eventually,
the company showed up to the citycouncil to talk to the Gilman
community about their concerns.
After talking things through, Jesse andother Gilman volunteers shifted their
(21:11):
hours and came up with an agreementthat made everyone feel comfortable.
While showing up to city council meetingswas always an option for the Gilman, some
members decided to take it a step further.
For Jesse, that looked likejoining the Berkeley Rent Board.
From 2008 to 2018, Jesse spent his timeon the Rent Board advocating on behalf of
(21:33):
tenants in venues like 924 Gilman Street.
Okay, so one of the reasons I was able torun for office is because I can stay awake
when incredibly boring things happen.
Come up like land, use
the road to get to therent board wasn't easy.
Many people in the punk communityviewed Jesse's efforts to run
for office as a form of betrayal.
(21:54):
I had friends who would kind ofput up their nose at me and sneer
like, you're running for office,you're gonna become the man.
And I'd be like, well, better methan the people who are there now.
And so, and that's theage old question, right?
Do you become part of the machine ordo you, uh, fight outside the machine?
Against the machine?
As more upscale restaurants and boutiquestried to move into spaces around the
(22:17):
Gilman, Jesse's work on the Rent Boardgave him more opportunities to preserve
the area surrounding 924 Gilman.
And I was like, look, if youput a high end restaurant across
8th Street from Gilman, theirpatrons will not like our patrons.
All 220 of them or whateverwho are outside between bands.
(22:37):
Smoking cigarettes and beingloud and having funny hair.
Like, I don't care howBerkeley they think they are.
They're not going to like that.
And that's going to get us shut down.
Jesse and other Gilman leaders wentto the city council to advocate
against the proposed Yuppie Street.
Since the city council already knewJesse as a member on the rent board, that
gave him some leverage in his advocacy.
(22:59):
As a result, the developersended up dropping their project,
which was a huge win for Gilman.
If you told me in 1989that we'd be able to.
I
asked Jesse if the threatof gentrification ever faded
to the background for him.
His answer?
Never.
The
(23:25):
Gilman has anchored itself in thetide of gentrification, continuously
working to endure the next wave.
I'm amazed by how the Gilman communityhas navigated gentrification so far.
But I do find myselfwondering how they'll survive.
One night, as I'm reminiscing about themosh pit and the feeling of crashing
(23:46):
into sweaty people, I search upimages of 924 Gilman Street on Google.
I find a picture from an oldshow and notice a sign spray
painted in big white letters.
It says, Nothing is more punk thanbeing self determined and respecting
the self determination of others.
And that's when it hits me.
(24:07):
I need to go back.
So Carlos and I take anothertrip across the Bay Bridge.
Some things have changed.
They no longer give out membership cards.
Now they just have a touchscreenwith a credit card reader.
But otherwise, the place is the same.
Punk rockers with tattoo sleevesand ripped up denim vests crash
(24:28):
into each other in the mosh pit.
And their kids follow.
One guy catches my attention.
A 40 something year old photographerwearing a pair of New Balance shoes
that my dad also probably owns.
I strike up a conversation with theguy, he's a self described techie
by day, music photographer by night.
He's taking photos of peoplesitting on the couches at Gilman.
(24:51):
He says that the Gilmanis everything to him.
So I ask him the same question I'd askCarlos and Jesse and Charlie and myself.
What makes Gilman so special?
And why does it matterif it lives or dies?
He turns to me and thenpoints around the room.
Look at the people sittingon the couches, he says.
(25:11):
They're the ones who makethis place so special.
When I think back to my first timeat 924 Gilman Street, perhaps the
thing that I left the mosh pitwith was a sense of community.
And that sense of community is reallywhat made me fall in love with this place.
Everything from the beat up couchesto the chaotic spray painted
(25:32):
pictures, and even the music itself.
Standing at the edge of the room,watching as people jumped and danced
and crashed into each other inthe mosh pit, I'm taken back to my
own experience, in the same spot.
I felt free in a way that was new to me.
It took coming back to the Gilmanto realize what it was I'd felt
that night in the mosh pit.
(25:54):
As I felt myself falling,only to feel people around me.
It's that sense of community, thefeeling that there are people all
around me who understand why evenas strangers, we need each other.
Why we need this space.
But it's not a guaranteethat the Gilman will survive.
(26:15):
What is clear, is thatwhat this place stands for.
I like to think that spaces likeGilman are important and that people
know that spaces like Gilman areimportant and will help us stay open.
And this sounds kind of cheesy, butGilman has always kind of been a
more about the spirit and soul of thecollective rather than an actual function.
(26:38):
So even if we have to close ourdoors, the people involved, the work
that we do, the passion that peoplehave for music will still exist.
It just probably will have to findanother avenue, another place to cause
a ruckus and make noise and make a mess.
The Gilman is a space wherepeople can bring their grievances
and joy and frustrations, andthey're all welcomed here.
(27:01):
I found the Gilman at a timewhen I needed to escape.
a life that felt out of control.
When the whole world neededa place to scream over
everything that was going wrong.
So a place to express how thingsare not okay in a way that was
chaotic, raw, and unfiltered.
You could express any motion that cameup without having to explain it further.
(27:21):
It's still a place whereI can find that today.
I recognize that this type of place withchipped paint and beat up couches isn't
for everyone, but for me, it's paradise.
That was Welcome to
(27:47):
Paradise by Caroline Stein.
You've been listening to Stateof the Human, the podcast of the
Stanford Storytelling Project.
This episode was produced by CarolynStein and me, Ana Delmeda Amaral,
with support from Laura Joyce Davis,Dawn Frazier, Megan Kalfas, Melissa
Deardahl, and Jonah Willengans.
(28:09):
For their generous financial support,we'd like to thank the Vice Provost for
Undergraduate Education, the Programin Writing and Rhetoric, the Office of
the Vice President of the RIT, You canlearn about the Stanford Storytelling
Project and our podcasts, workshops,live events, and courses at storytelling.
stanford.
edu.
(28:35):
You can find this and every episodeof State of the Human on our website
or anywhere you listen to podcasts.
For State of the Human andthe Stanford Storytelling
Project, I'm Ana Delmeda Moral.
Thank you for listening.
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