A Bit Too Much Jumping Around

My first memory of listening to Sick Of It All was from the floor. As these Stacks have detailed, I’ve done a lot of listening from the floor. To this day, I still feel comfortable and often prefer laying about on the ground. Despite attire, I will oft eschew both elegant chairs and corrupt couches to crash further down. Tourmates have long been horrified by my choice to sprawl upon a trodden backstage floorboard or stained rug rather than posturing more sanitarily. We could get into the psychology of my affinity for the floor, but we won’t here. This Stack is more about my attempt to reach the rafters.

In the earliest of ‘90s, the earliest of AFI would lay about listening to SOIA cassettes. On a generic blank white tape, I had a copy of the Together 7”. The Revelation compilation was dubbed alongside Government Issue, State Of Alert, Teen Idles, The Faith, Mourning Noise, Jerry’s Kids and the Necros. Markus Stopholese purchased a genuine copy of Blood, Sweat, and No Tears (“OK, Alex”, anyone?) at The Last Record Store in Santa Rosa. Sick Of It All’s debut LP had been released the summer before our freshman year. Through Vic Chalker, upon a shared search for Animal Chin, AFI’s first guitarist and I met that fall of ’89. For an era, we three were inseparable. I was thirteen years old. Mark, a winter baby whom, like I, shared a birthday with his brother was a year older. I was young for our class. He was the eldest. Mark got his driver’s license our sophomore year. This highly aided our teenaged aspirations of… well, to be honest, slamming and shredding.

Inset into the eastern hills of our hamlet, Mark’s bedroom was strewn with cassettes and Thrasher mags. Upon its floor, we listened to “My Life,” reading Skarfing Material, contemplating whether we should leave the floor and go skate the halls of our high school campus. It was too risky. There was a dance that night. Eventually we’d try to hawk copies of Behind the Times standing outside of the prom’s double doors, like maladroit punk pushers. Two years prior, chewing Twizzlers (yes, we preferred them to Red Vines), we ejected the NYHC, snatched our decks and hopped into Mark’s truck. Lou Koller barked us down the hill, through the fragrant pear orchards, past the Circle K in front of which we’d name our first LP, and over the 101 overpass into town. Outside The Savings Bank, we defaced public curbs with coconut scented Sex Wax, and attempted wall rides from the transitions of root-warped sidewalks across from Score Massi’s boarded up Palace Hotel. Mark landed a few. Our kicktails clacked as we burst, “This is my life, live it my own way,” into the quiet night.

A few years later, AFI was four years old. Mark, having yet to drop out of Harvey Mudd, was still living in Pomona. On weekends he’d throw his Marshall into the bed of his high school pickup truck and drive up to the East Bay. We’d work out what would become Answer That And Stay Fashionable in a vacant community space at my UCB dorms before our rehearsal day opened at 924 Gilman Street. Sick Of It All had played the punk collective in ’89, but on March 10th of ’95 they were billed at the Berkeley Square. The show was on a Friday. Mark was up from SoCal. Adam was over from Santa Cruz. Together, after polishing up “Half Empty Bottle” on the tattered 924 stage, AFI headed up University Avenue, parked near Dong Dahl’s liquor, grabbed a few bottles of SoBe Green Tea and marched up to The Square. Bailey, a first generation deathrocker with tight leather pants and a voluminous Tina Turner mullet, let us in for free. He’d already started regularly billing AFI on his stage. There upon it, we saw the NYC legends for the first time — and they lived up to their legend.

With the arguable exception of Mr. Chi Pig (a different beast), I’d never before seen a front man move like Lou Koller, and I’d inarguably never seen a tighter, more powerful band. They were titans. They are. That night, the Square’s ceiling dripped with condensation from the seething crowd. The dreadlocked floor was a brutal extravaganza of cathartic dance — kickboxers in Kikwear flinging limbs like berserker cheerleaders. Shirtless boys showcased their crucified-skin back pieces as they wove through Pete and Craig to dive from the stage. We maladjusted shed blood, sweat, and absolutely no tears.

Eight months later, AFI had the honor of supporting Rancid on their ...And Out Come the Wolves tour. On November 20th, having barely survived the truly treacherous Canadian winter drives, our van and tiny trailer shadowed our hometown friends’ bus into Connecticut. I had been looking forward to my birthday. It was to be the first night I’d get to share a stage with Sick Of It All. As I helped Wedge carry boxes of our glow-in-the-dark Fly in the Ointment 7”s into the vast venue, the scent of mineral oil hit me. It lingered through Winston smoke. Ash impossibly hung from a loader’s cigarette as he wheeled past with our massive bass cab. The 1,200 capacity club had once been a bowling alley and a supermarket. It wasn’t particularly luxurious, but for us it was a huge room. All of the rooms on the Rancid tour had been. They were huge. We were so grateful to have been invited to support them on the run.

Onstage, soundchecking in his weathered leather, Tim Armstrong sang, “Time to say goodbye!” Lars and Matt (I’ve long loved his melodic growl) took to their mics for the final chorus of “Ruby Soho” then handed off their guitars. BJ Papas was here. I spied the large cast on her leg through my waxy, box-dyed bangs. The universally acclaimed NYC punk photographer had just been in a motorcycle accident. Brad Logan was swinging the diminutive artist’s cane. Soon to form F-Minus, Brad was working for Rancid on that tour. Today he plays in Adolescents — that night he played stickball.

From across the floor, BJ pitched Brad a wadded ball of duct tape. The consummate punk knocked it all the way into Jay Walker’s wall of ...And Out Come The Wolves tees. Keeping a grave expression, the venerable Dogpatch Wino barked a playful threat then tossed the wad back. BJ caught it as Craig Ahead marched out from the doorway of the dressing room we’d be sharing with Sick Of It All. “Next up to bat!” His Queens accent was as thick as his forearms: bassists! I spied Armand tuning his drums on the floor. His forearms were even thicker than his accent. The Koller brothers were yet to be seen, but I knew they were nearby. I know now that Pete was surely out by the buses doing curls with resistance bands. Lou was probably deliberating over collectible Spider-Man issues at the closest comic book store. I was excited to meet them all but intimidated. Not only was SOIA an inspiration, but they were New York Hardcore. Only 20 years prior their city birthed punk. These men were second generation! Plus, what if it happened to be clobberin’ time when I was introduced?

With the talented and benevolent BJ, I watched SOIA soundcheck. After our own private performance of “Scratch the Surface,” in our intimate dressing room upstairs she introduced me to Craig, Armand, Pete, and Lou. They met me with warm smiles, firm handshakes, and immediately began treating me as a friend. “Davey, you see the strip club yet?” Already good looking out, Armand impishly directed, “Through there.” His buff arms motioned to a faux knotty pine door with a bronze handle. Its facade went from unassuming to ominous. “What?” I asked, peering at what I’d assumed was a broom closet. When I looked back, BJ had left the room. Armand repeated himself. Grinning his huge grin, Craig cheered me on, “Go see, kid!” Was I being hazed? Regardless, I had to prove myself. I opened the door. Expecting to be confronted with a prurient priest, a butchering Ronald McDonald or, possibly worse, a DMS member on a mission to test my hardcore mettle, I stepped out to a private balcony. “Hells Bells” boomed from PA speakers hung on chains. Below me, at the sexy hour of 6:00 pm, naked ladies danced across a mirrored stage. Impressively, they scaled glimmering brass poles, patent Pleasers first. Shook, I shot back into the dressing room. “Holy shit!” I announced, “There’s a strip club in the dressing room!” Though The NorVa in Virginia hides a suspect and storied hot tub in its green room, never before nor after had I seen such a thing at any venue. BJ ceremoniously returned. Followed by the rest of the touring party, she carried a flaming, vegan, cookies n’ cream cake to celebrate my 20th year of near innocence. Sick Of It All joined Rancid, AFI, and the whole crew to sing me “Happy Birthday”. Wishing for a SOIA support tour, I blew out my candles.

AFI played two or three more shows with Sick Of It All on that Rancid run. The next year, Joe Principe brought me to Chicago Tattooing Company where Nick Colella put an Alleyway Dragon on my leg. Not long after, in ’97, our new friends from New York invited us to join them for a string of shows. In Buffalo we shared a bill with Snapcase. That night we crashed at their bassist Bob’s House. The next morning, I awoke on his floor to a turntable playing the banger, “What’s the Story, Morning Glory?” Bonding over Britpop, SXE, skateboarding, and Discord, Snapcase and AFI became quick friends. Not long after, Frank Vicarrio would fly to Berkeley, stay a few nights at Channing house, meet Glenn Danzig with me, and join AFI. He remained our third bass player for that weekend — long enough to take a promo photo. Google away!

The ‘97 SOIA run that introduced us to Snapcase ended with us all playing the Roxy in Manhattan. VOD and Ensign were on the bill as well. To perform at such a historic NYC venue with SOIA was a huge honor. Near the swarming merch table, amidst a sea of JNCOs and Krishna beads, I was wondering where Madonna might be that electrifying evening when Craig introduced me to Jimmy Gestapo. Stackers, let the accents hit as hard as a mid ‘80s Bowery breakdown:

“Jimmy! This is Davey from AFI!”

“AFI!?” he teased, “What’s that stand for? Agnostic Front Imitators?” Jimmy guffawed. Trying neither to think of bongs nor BBQ (crucial or otherwise), and delighted to be ribbed by yet another NY legend, I laughed.

“I like you kid! You got smiling eyes!” I believe that was the only time I’ve ever spoken to Jimmy. I’ll never forget it. It was great.

In ’99, Sick Of It All asked AFI to play the support slot on their Life on the Ropes tour. Hot Water Music and Indecision joined, elevating the bill into something truly extraordinary. This was one of the best times I’ve ever had on the road. The camaraderie was unparalleled. The shows were off the hook. AFI gained fans that would never have given this pleather-wrapped East Bay bat a chance had the NYC greats not anointed us. The next year, we joined SOIA for the Flying High tour, then again in 2001 for Sno-Jam. Grinding through the smoke filled halls of Germany and the ice rinks of Salmon Arm, Canada strengthened our natural bonds. Lifetimes later, in 2010, Sick Of It All were kind enough to join AFI for our UK Tour. I wish the Crash Love shows had been better received, if only for them!

I’ve so many fond memories of our times on the road with those New Yorkers: Lou and Craig screaming at each other about who did or didn’t put a crease in a previously mint edition of Dr. Strange — the thunder of those two killers fighting over comics rang of armageddon — Armand and I discussing Massive Attack and lap dances, and receiving his long kept advice, “stay out of the champagne room,” while Craig forbiddingly warned to avoid European strip clubs altogether. “They’ll roll ya kid. They’re all gangsters. They’ll take your passport.” And Pete… Pete truly changed my life; he showed me how to do tour workouts! To this day, almost every time I do shoulder flys I picture that shredded dynamo teaching me the lift as we stood in gravel amidst chipped cinder blocks, alongside the tracks next to another bombed out hanger we’d play that night somewhere in Germany. All the boys told magical tales of old New York — CBGB’s, Danceteria, The Limelight, The Ramones, Blondie, boxing (both in the ring and on the streets) and how to make the perfect gravy. I’ve probably seen Sick Of It All more than any band. Every night of Life On The Ropes, I watched them from the floor as I danced while wrecking my already shredded chords even more — literally, every night. How could I resist? I was on tour with Sick Of It All!

Watching Lou Koller decidedly transformed me. In 2007, AFI supported The Cure at the Shoreline Amphitheater. Heavy, right? As I walked from stage toward our trailer, I ran into Robert.

“You were great,” he complimented.

Doing my best to not die, I gushed, “You saw it?” I removed my halfway unglued lashes.

“Of course,” he drolly detailed, “a bit too much jumping for me, but really great.”

Utterly delighted, I concurred, “Me too!”

AFI’s music has changed dramatically since we first formed, and again, again, and again since we first toured with SOIA. Naturally, the way I move on stage has evolved as well. Yet nearly every AFI set, I am still compelled to do a split leg jump. To this day, this will almost assuredly happen at the end of “Girl’s Not Grey.” 35 years into performing, at the age of 35+15 (hopefully some of you can’t add), I credit every one of these leaps to the invocation of the spirit of Lou Koller. Thank you Sick Of It All, for the years of inspiration and friendship. Thank you, Lou, for teaching me to fly.

Photo by BJ Papas: Lou and I choosing Bugs over beers at some Southern California party, circa ‘98

Photo by Mary Beecher: Me, as Lou, May 2026, Minneapolis