Fiction: Can't You Nazi?

 By Facundo Rompehuevos

There is a place. It’s in Van Nuys. Bands rehearse there; some famous, some not.

It’s an impressive list. Bands, singers, and randoms like The Dickies, Bad Religion (both those bands are from the Valley so that makes sense, but then…), Limp Bizkit, Tori Amos, Nancy Sinatra, Weird Al, Lou Diamond Phillips (probably practicing for his role in La Bamba, playing Pacoima’s own Ritchie Valens—Riiitchiiiieeeeee!!!!), Brian Setzer, Redbone, Ray Parker, Jr. (the Ghostbusters theme song dude), Quiet Riot, Dokken and freggin’ Sherman Hemsley (from TV’s The Jeffersons).

The list itself is the perfect way to define the eccentric rehearsal/recording studio known as Uncle’s Studios, or “Uncle’s” for short.

And it was cheap. Which was a huge plus for poor and stinky punk kids and rocker foos. Like us.

On their website, today, the cheapest room costs $20 per hour. It was probably even cheaper back in the 90s into the early 2000s—during the time we were there. I don’t remember. Probably no one does.

Each room came with a drumset, guitar and bass amps and a PA system for the mics. Some rooms were even equipped with couches, ashtrays and zero security cameras, providing the perfect place to get drunk and high while “practicing” or “recording.” Living the rockstar dream, $20 per hour, inside a stinky, soundproof room in the backstreets of Van Nuys.

To be in a band—at any age, at any proficiency—is like being famous. Because no matter how shitty your band is, you would most likely play a few shows in your lifetime, maybe even record a demo, and keep a website to document your existence/for promotion. And if you’re good, and if you generate a following, then word-of-mouth gets you more shows, more fans, more fame, more drugs, more beers—maybe even more money.

That’s how it was for us back then. For me, the vocalist, for the drummer, Psycho (who was psycho), for the bassist, Nazi Nick (who wasn’t a Nazi, just a white kid with a shaved head who liked Nazi imagery and enjoyed making racist jokes), and Boner (who, apart from having a penis, which we assumed could become erect, was also related to one of the rappers from Bone Thugs ‘n’ Harmony, ergo “Boner”).

We were punks, metalheads and deathrockers, but more accurately we were a mix of all of the above. If we had to be categorized, the umbrella term of “rocker foo” was good enough.

As fans, in some cases fanatics, of extreme music—grindcore, crust, power violence, black metal, death metal, punk, goth and deathrock—we immersed ourselves in our respective subcultures and easily found unity in the subcultural overlaps—which were, among other things, getting high, going to shows, and dressing like freaks. Playing in a band gave us a sense of belonging, a creative outlet for our anger and frustration. If we had better mentorship, better guidance, and more humility, the band probably would’ve been a great way to channel all of our destructive feelings and ideas and turn them into something positive.

But for us, the band was more of an excuse to get fucked up than anything else.

Most of us lived in Van Nuys. Most of us came from broken homes and avoided our families as much as possible, preferring our group as the family of our choosing. Most of us weren’t proficient musicians. Most of us had voracious appetites for drugs and alcohol.

One day we were walking down Aetna Street, which was one of the smaller back streets in the industrial sector of Van Nuys. We preferred the quieter, darker streets and alleys in that area because it was usually empty—no one lived in the industrial sector. We drank from pints of vodka, 40 ouncers, and smoked weed or meth freely, nearly carefree, knowing the cops usually patrolled the residential streets where the gangsters would kick it.

Although we avoided the cops, the gang members would fuck with us sometimes. But they treated us better than the cops—at least they wouldn’t arrest us and pour out our booze; just the occasional fight or beatdown.

The first time we found Uncle’s we were on the other side of Aetna, at Pat’s Liquor, just far enough from the windows so the cashier wouldn’t notice us, getting a bum to buy us King Cobra tall cans.

“Hey man,” I said, pointing at Uncle’s. “What the fuck is that?”

“Looks like a crackhouse,” Boner said. “But, like, also some sort of…warehouse, maybe?”

“They’re playing music,” Psycho said. “A band is playing.”

“It’s a rehearsal spot,” Nazi Nick said. “Let’s check it out.”

The bum came out from the store and gave us the paper-bagged tall cans. We gave him one and left the change with him—standard exchange, standard protocol. 

The bum counted the change. It came out to $1.28. 

“That’s it?” he said, not really asking, more trying to shame us into giving him more money.

I dug into my pockets. None of us worked. All the money we would get would come from the occasional $5 or $20 our parents would give us or money we would get from spanging on the street.

“Here,” I said and handed him all that I had in my front pants pocket: 50 cents.

“Fucking punk kids,” the bum said.

But we all just ignored him. The transaction was over. 

Uncle’s was discreet, shady, and shitty-looking all at the same time. All the windows were boarded up—which I’m sure was more about soundproofing the building than intentionally trying to make it appear like a traphouse. It was painted the same throw-up beige color from top to bottom: dozens of thick, drippy coats of paint covered the framing, the door knobs and the address numbers of the building that were once brass-colored. Like they were in a hurry to cover up the graffiti and have the studio be open for business.

We went in and checked it out. We inquired about the prices. They showed us the rooms. The muffled sound of drums, guitars, bass and PAs escaped from the rehearsal rooms each time a door would open. Thick clouds of cigarette smoke stuck to the air.

We decided then and there that we would come back the next day.

We each pitched in $5 to get the cheapest room. Boner brought his guitar, Nazi Nick brought his bass. Because the room came with a drumset, Psycho didn’t have to bring anything except his double-bass pedal and some drum sticks.

After we set everything up, we went over all the songs we had. About 8. Although we covered a couple of Misfits songs so that brought up the total to 10. Each of our songs were about a minute long, bringing our total set to about 12 minutes.

It was hot out so we were in the mood for some cold beer. After we paid for the room we were able to pitch in some cash—coming up with about $14—which we used to get the cheapest and strongest beer across the street from Pat’s Liquor. Because it was early in the afternoon, there was a whole day in front of us. A whole day, hours of sunny daylight, hours of nearly-invisible and poisonous LA smog, hours of stupid and happy chirping sparrows. A whole day that needed to be avoided, escaped, destroyed. 

So we needed to get nice and fucked up; King Cobra’s 6 % ABV wouldn’t do it this time—at night it was different, the day had come to a close. This time we needed Steel Reserve 211. With an ABV of 8.1 %, one 40 ouncer each was more than enough.

We gave Boner the money. A few minutes later he came back with two black plastic bags with two 40 ouncers in each bag. Psycho got behind the drumset. Boner and Nazi Nick plugged their cables into their respective amps. The mic was already plugged into the PA so I didn’t have to do shit.

We went through several false starts—I forgot the lyrics; Psycho missed a drum-fill; Boner forgot the bridge. Nazi Nick rarely ever fucked up. Still, we eventually got through all the songs. We had the room for an hour. So after the set we had about 40 minutes to kill. Boner was working on some new songs, but after drinking the 211s we quickly lost interest. 

There are different kinds of drunks: Beer drunk. Wine drunk. Vodka drunk. Rum drunk. Whiskey drunk. 

But 211 drunk is something different. It’s almost like acid in how deeply it alters your consciousness. It creeps in slow, like a warm sea of piss in which you are gently and slowly drowning. You feel it heavily in your face first, then the drunkenness travels up into your skull, seeping into your brain, and then it falls down the back of your head and spine. There is a slight tingle that goes throughout your extremities, like an unwanted and disgusting orgasm that drips down the side of your leg. You look down, then up, then down again at your watch and then up. You try to make sense of your new surroundings but can’t remember how you were able to travel through time and space and arrive at your new location. You marvel at the mystery of life and the power of strong malt liquor.

When I finally came to, I was being dragged out of Uncle’s and thrown into the street. The rest of the guys were standing but wobbling. Nazi Nick appeared to be the least wobbly and belligerent.

“You dumb little shits!” yelled the guy who threw me out.

“What,” I said. “What…happened man?”

“You can’t do that, you kids can’t fucking do that!”

I looked at Nazi Nick for guidance and clarity. Boner and Psycho had already started walking up the street, deeper into the industrial area.

“Lightweight fags,” the guy said, and turned around to walk back into Uncle’s.

“C’mon, let’s just go,” Nazi Nick helped me up to my feet. “You good?”

“Yea, but, yea—so what happened? Did we get kicked out?”

“Well, yea.”

“Why?”

“We kinda fucked up the spot.”

“What did we do?”

Nazi Nick went on to explain that, somewhere, in the span of those 40 minutes, we went crazy and egged each other on to do dumb shit like take a piss in the corner, do backflips off the drumset, play frisbee with the drum symbols, and then Nazi Nick took out a Sharpie and drew a bunch of skinny and deformed-looking Swastikas with squiggly eyeballs on top with the words “CANT YOU NAZI?” on the walls in between the soundproof padding. It was supposed to be a dumb play on words—since Nazi sounds the same as “not see”; can’t you not see?

We would’ve gotten away with it if we had left before our rehearsal time ran out. But some things can’t be stopped. There’s no point in trying to look back and be all self-reflective ‘n’ shit. We didn’t want lessons. We didn’t want to learn. We didn’t want to think of what we were doing as mistakes. Some things come at you, and all you can do is wait and wince in expectant pain, and hope it’s over soon. Drugs and alcohol have always helped—they hurry the coming event, and afterward, they dull the pain and suffering a little bit, too.

In the end all you can do is be there, and it’s better when you’re with someone else. To help you up afterward. It helps not to be alone. The worst thing is being alone.

“Thanks man,” I told Nazi Nick.

I saw something on his face, under his nose. Sometime during all the madness, Nazi Nick drew a Hitler mustache on himself with a Sharpie.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and we hugged.

Facundo Rompehuevos is a Chicano activist, writer, husband, father and recovering alcoholic and drug addict born and raised in the San Fernando Valley. His work has appeared in zines and literary magazines and poetry journals, such as Unlikely Stories, Rusty Truck, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, The Rising Phoenix Review, Red's Not White and Delirium. He has two books of poetry: Irreconcilable Contradictions (2017) and Grabbing the Stars from the Sky (2021), both published by Fourth Sword Publications. His books have been sold at Stories Books & Cafe and Skylight Books. His debut novel, Children Chasing Tigers, will be published by Anxiety Press. Currently, he is working on a collection of short stories.

You can find him on Substack at facundorompehuevos.substack.com.